


Effigy

by athena_crikey



Series: Fear and Favour [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Case Fic, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Full moons are always dangerous. This one turns up the dusty remains of the largest blood magic rite in Oxford in recent memory - complete with a survivor. COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The shrill shriek of police whistles cuts through the night, torches casting flickering rivers of light between the gravestones. High in the sky above a full moon lies heavy and idle over the wide spread of an oak, sketching out in gentle detail what the harsh electric light misses.

Somewhere ahead of him, Merkin is racing to find his bolthole before he feels a hand on his collar. Somewhere close behind, a pair of PCs are following, breathing hard and heavy. Somewhere further back still Lott too is following, likely breathing less hard. 

Every year there are fewer cities in Britain a lone man would dare to walk alone tonight, or a policeman to chase him. It’s no longer just the wolves or the ghasts, monsters indeed but familiar ones. The war raised a wretched brood of necromancers and blood mages, hungry for power and living in a world ill-equipped to constrain them. This now is their night too, and their wishes are not granted without a price – paid by whom, not many care.

Up ahead is the church, her ancient doors open to grant sanctuary. Thursday storms up the steps and pauses just inside, trying to silence his own furious breathing and the shaking of his hands to hear. The air wafting past him smells of the cold dustiness of a stone building, of beeswax and paper. Thursday takes one cautious step inside, and hears a wooden creak. He’s off like a shot, waving the PCs on behind him; he tears down the aisle, dodges past the altar and through an open door which leads to the bell tower. There are stairs leading up of course, but he ignores them – Merkin wouldn’t trap himself. A trap door is set into the floor and he hauls that open with the help of Reid, the first of the PCs to arrive. 

There’s a ladder set into the hatch, the wood cheap and rough and propped at an awkward angle. Thursday more falls down than climbs, and lands on a hard floor of grit and stone in the pitch black. It’s colder here than the church, and the air smells of dankness and earth. In the distance, he can hear the fading thump of footfalls. His torch cuts a long line through the darkness, revealing close stone walls covered in grime. The catacombs. 

Behind him Reid tumbles down, followed by Callahan and then Lott, who takes one look at the surroundings and curses. 

“The bloody catacombs? Just our luck. Might as well turn back now.”

“I’m not losing him, Arthur. You know what he’s been nicking out of those graves – supplying most of the black rites and blood magic in the county, as likely as not.” Thursday’s already jogging, watching sharply for side tunnels or surface access. 

“There’s miles of tunnels down here – they run under half the city, at least; it’s a bleeding labyrinth! We don’t know half of what goes on down here, and we’re not equipped for what we do know about,” calls Lott after him, trailing behind at a reluctant walk.

He’s right. Getting lost in the tunnels, although a real danger, isn’t the truly alarming part. Immeasurably worse than being lost is the possibility of being found. The city police have unofficial permission to stay out of the catacombs, a promise of a blind eye even from Crisp. Occasionally losing a suspect is far preferable to occasionally losing a copper. 

Merkin obviously knows this part of the underground network, which means he’s long gone – and may well have left traps behind for them. Thursday slows, a slow seething frustration settling itchingly under his skin. At the end of his torch’s reach the tunnel curves off into darkness, just like this goddamned case. 

“Sir?” Reid, sounding thoughtful. 

Thursday doesn’t turn, still staring after the lost suspect. “What?”

“There’s a door here, sir.”

Thursday turns and sees by the light of Reid’s flashlight that what he had taken for a boarded-up entrance is in fact a wooden door, much mended with crooked planks, some of which have been nailed to the frame. There’s no knob, just a looped length of twine. 

“Merkin never went in there,” protests Lott from a distance. “You heard him, he scarpered like a coney.”

Thursday ignores the sergeant. He does, however, draw the revolver he brought along with him for this evening’s proceedings. It’s loaded with silver-plated bullets, a luxury issued only to DIs, and only on full moons. Thursday nods to the door, and Reid puts his shoulder to it. The ancient slats crumble like balsawood under his twelve odd stone and he disappears in a cloud of dust and dry rot. Thursday steps through after him sharply with the torch, revolver raised to follow along the straight line it slices through the gloom.

The first pass of the torch, soon joined by Lott’s, reveals a large open room with an unusual number of walls – five or six is Thursday’s first impression. The centre of the space is mostly open, the floor intricate stonework, set about with a few tall iron braziers. Around the edges of the room stand stone caskets – tombs, in fact. Each has a dark shadow lying atop it –effigies, presumably. Six tombs, six walls to the room.

“Place is a bleeding crypt,” announces Lott, flatly, standing by the entranceway. Both PCs are standing beside him, eyeing the tombs distrustfully.

“We’re right under the church here.” Thursday glances up as he strides forward, calculating; if he hasn’t lost his bearings entirely, they’re under the main chapel. Holy ground, safe. 

He smells fresh dust as he moves deeper in; there’s a thick layer of it on the floor, and on all the tombs and ironwork. Cobwebs hang from the ceilings; looking down, he finds he’s already got a heavy layer of them on his coat – Win _will_ be pleased with him. 

Lott remains by the door, wary and impatient. “Guv’nor, we shouldn’t be hanging ‘round. A man can get into all kinds of trouble, poking his head into crypts at midnight. Some of them involving getting that head removed.”

There’s a faint smell of something richer, darker under the dust. Incense, maybe, although St. Giles isn’t very high church – and lamp oil. Thursday’s torch skims over the first of the effigies, grey and rough with dust. Lott’s warning hasn’t gone totally unheeded, and he’s moving quickly now, taking in the bare facts as he circles the room hastily. There’s thick lines of melted wax on the floor, black and red, and something else, too long dried to make out clearly. He sweeps on to the next tomb, and stops. 

The statue here is a pile of rubble, loosely heaped on the stone surface of the coffin. It hasn’t retained any of its former shape, no immediately apparent hands, elbows, pleats of clothing. Thursday frowns, and turns more slowly to run the torch over the other tombs. 

“Guv’nor,” calls Lott, more insistently. 

Four of the five other statues seem to be in similar states of disrepair, now that he looks more carefully. Thursday turns back to the nearest one, and reaches out to clean the stone. Beneath his fingers, the dust brushes gently away. So too does ash, thick and dark. Beneath it is left behind not hard granite but darkened, charred bone. 

“ _Sir_ ,” barks Lott.

“Quiet,” snaps Thursday, violently. He turns on his heel and returns to the first tomb. “Get over here. Now.” He waits for Lott to arrive, sullen and silent, and motions for him to hold a torch on the dusty figure. Thursday pockets his own torch and, gun in his right hand, uses his left to brush the dust from the still face. 

“Jesus,” hisses Lott. He drops the torch, and fumbles to pull his own weapon. Thursday reaches out and grabs his wrist before he is halfway through drawing it.

“You put that away, Arthur. I think one’s quite enough between the two of us.”

In the harsh torch-light, the grey skin and fine fair eyelashes seem nearly translucent. Under the thick layer of dust Thursday can see that while the fine bones of the young man’s face would probably have made him a more likely model than many for a sculptor, this is no piece of stonework. 

Lott twists away, actually kicking Thursday’s ankle in his panic. “Are you mad? Get out of it! He’s – ”

“He’s what, Arthur? A vampire? Children of the night, aren’t they? What’s he’s about at the moment then, mid-afternoon nap?” He holds his hand up, streaked with a greasy grey line. “Got about two years’ worth of dust on him. That door was boarded up from the outside, and doesn’t look like there’re any other exits in here. Way I see it, someone locked this lad in here. Him, and the rest of them.” He kneels and picks up Lott’s torch, holds it out with a black look until the sergeant takes it. While Lott directs it, he pointedly raises the lad’s upper lip to expose perfectly normal teeth – no fangs. 

“Could be any manner of other monster. Probably moon touched,” mutters Lott. “Is he breathing?”

Thursday’s already pressing two fingers against the cold neck. “No. No pulse, no breath.”

Thursday looks up and catches the eye of the two PCs, watching from a few feet away, and nods them towards the second body; they skulk across the room reluctantly. At the same time, he’s pulling his fingers away from the lifeless throat – they catch on something, and he looks down to see a flash of silver. A long, thin chain slips out from under the lapels of the suit. Shimmering bright at one end is a medallion the size of a shilling. Lifting it, Thursday can see that in fact it isn’t a solid piece, but rather a series of tightly-fitting concentric circles, engraved with runes too small to make out in the poor light. 

Thursday glances at his DS. “Looks like silver. Not moon-touched, then.”

Lott shrugs loose shoulders. “’S not against his skin.”

“She’s clean, Inspector,” says Callahan, from across the room, interrupting Thursday’s reply. “She’s got a necklace like that, though.” He nods at the one Thursday has raised. Before Thursday can make a move to stop him, he slips the chain over her head. 

Thursday hears himself and Lott shout at the same time, but their cries are nothing compared to the roar of the flames. They rip up on the tomb in front of Callahan, violent and vociferous, streams of fire twining with each other as they race towards the ceiling. The dark form in their core is distorted by the strength and heat of the blaze in the first few instants, then crumples and is still. By then the PCs have regained their feet and their wits, and joined by Thursday and Lott beat down the flames with their coats. The fire dies fast under their combined onslaught, as though resigned to defeat. 

In the quiet following its wake, there’s the low crackle of stone cooling, and the sound of coats being folded, and of Callahan being sick in the corner. And, in the empty space behind them, someone gasping asthmatically. 

Thursday hasn’t survived the War, and London, as well as the softer streets of Oxford by hesitating. He turns around fast, dropping his coat but keeping a firm grip on the revolver. 

The young man is lying on his side, shedding dust in sheets as he struggles to breathe. His eyes as they catch Thursday’s are wide, blue, and horrified. Then another fit of coughing catches him and he folds up, legs scrabbling for purchase against the tomb, white fingers grasping the stone rim. Thursday has seen men struggling to live, and men waiting to kill. This one isn’t hard to place. 

Thursday crosses the room alone, pulling out his kerchief as he walks, and draws it over the lad’s face and hair. He tries to shy away, but hasn’t the breath to make a proper go of it. Thursday shushes him with partial attention, more concerned with cleaning dust away from his nose and mouth. “You’re alright. You’re alright, now. You’ll do.”

Thursday catches his wrist in a firm grip – the skin there is cool but already warmer than it was, and there’s a pulse skipping towards a steady rhythm. He makes a few more passes with the handkerchief, but the cotton is saturated with grime after the first couple, thick and limp in his hand. 

The coughing tapers off after the initial few bursts, and as Thursday shoves the useless kerchief in his pocket he finds the young man watching him, wary and fearful. “We’re the police – you’re safe now.” That garners no immediate reaction. The lad is starting to shiver, though, and with his face cleaner Thursday can see there’s a bluish hue to his lips. His skin is still cool, heart still skipping beats. 

“Someone fetch my coat, would you?” he asks without breaking eye contact, hearing the others crowding in behind. It’s handed to him and he lays it over the lad, boldly refusing to think of Win’s face. Despite it, the young man’s already shivering harder, eyes sliding closed.

“What’s your name. Here – stay awake. What’s your name?” Thursday shakes his shoulder, just this side of forcefully.

“Morse.” It’s barely audible, just a whisper lighting the lad’s path to unconsciousness. 

For a moment there’s just silence, and the thick smell of smoke – and worse. Thursday stares blackly down at the lad in front of him, the sole remaining witness they have – and for how long? He pinches the bridge of his nose, and turns around. 

“Alright. Callahan, you get back to the nick. Put the word out on Merkin. Make sure to mention he’s got a sack full of goods. Could be he’ll already be looking for buyers.” Callahan nods shakily, his face white and his shoulders hunched. He’s holding his tunic tight in his arms like a child with a doll, rubbing the hem nervously. Through the thin sleeves of his white cotton shirt Thursday can make out the usual tats – half mysticism, half bravado, they’re the one protection no copper is ever without. 

He turns to Lott, watching with crossed arms, and nods to Morse. “Arthur, you and Reid best take him up to the hospital – it’ll be an age to get the ambulance men down here tonight. Then get on the phone – I want the pathologist down here ASAP. After that, get onto the colleges. Someone from Rites and Rituals – with half a brain, for preference.”

Lott raises an eyebrow. “Them blue bloods won’t be down here ‘til well past sun up, sir. Like as not the pathologist neither. Ain’t no rush anyhow – not for some stiffs in a den of devil worship. Let ‘em lie – they got what they paid for.” He spits at Morse’s feet. 

Thursday feels the anger rolling in, quick and heavy as summer lightning. The hairs rise on his arms and at the back of his neck first, sensing the storm coming. It lights along his skin, a running wave of rage that leaves him burning red. He can’t remember the last time he was this furious, the last time the cowardice, the indifference got so deep under his skin. 

But he’s still on the clock, and there are still PCs in the room. So he looks Lott straight in the eye, and speaks evenly. “You know that them as dance with the devil don’t lay down on their own pyres, Arthur – they find some other poor sod to throw on them. These aren’t the puppeteers, they’re the puppets. Only they aren’t, because they were living, breathing people once, and now they’re nothing but burnt bones. So you get this lad here up to the Radcliffe, then put in the damn calls just as you would any other. Then send out some uniforms to keep the perimeter – have them bring the phosphorous lamps, if it makes them feel easier.” 

Lott gives him a look of indifference as Callahan and Reid pick the lad up between them and start on their way out. “You staying?” he asks, following with the torch.

“Until relief arrives.” Thursday closes the door after them and wedges it shut. Then, chafing his hands together, he sits down to wait on the now-uncovered tomb. 

“What a bloody mess.”


	2. Chapter 2

There’s a cold mist blanketing the street this morning; ankle-deep, the streetlamps make it glow a soft gold. It will be gone as soon as the sun’s risen, Thursday knows, but for the next half hour or so the city will seem wonderfully clean, untouched. 

“Got something in the back for you,” is how Lott greets him as he climbs into the Jag, sandwich in his gloved hands. He turns to see his coat lying across the back seat, in need of a heavy brush down. 

“Any news?”

Lott shakes his head as he manoeuvres out of the lane. “Nothing yet. Pathologist’s down in the crypt; gentleman from the university should be round any time now.”

They make a left at the next intersection; Thursday turns in his seat to look behind them. “It’s the other way to the Radcliffe.”

“Oh – suppose that’s a bit of news. Seems the lad perked up overnight, insisted on being discharged. Can’t say as I blame him – when they heard where he’d come from, the docs stuck him in Old Ironsides. He’s waiting down the nick.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows. Formally known only as Ward 8, most of the stories about it are apocryphal. However, it is true that the iron-lined and silver-riveted ward in the Radcliffe’s east foundation was built directly beside the laundry to facilitate its flooding in the event of an emergency. 

“Ironsides – is he…?” asks Thursday, elliptically. 

Lott shrugs. “Clean, according to them. Probably have a few new nightmares after a night in there, though.” He snorts. Thursday glances at his DS out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t comment.

  
***

The lad waiting on the chair outside Thursday’s office bears little resemblance to the one in the crypt last night. For one thing, there is colour and life here: red hair and freckles with some pink in his cheeks, and clear blue eyes that focus on Thursday with surprising intensity. He is also clean and presentable, if in odd and ill-fitting clothes – a soft cotton shirt which has seen neither starch nor iron in donkey’s years under a brown knit pull-over, and an ancient pair of flannel trousers too long in the leg which have been rolled up at the ankle. The dregs of the lost-and-found, it would seem.

He stands as they approach, only a hint of hesitancy in his movement that suggests any tie to ill health. 

“Detective Inspector Fred Thursday,” says Thursday, shaking hands. The lad frowns thoughtfully.

“It was you last night, wasn’t it? You were there?”

Thursday nods. “I was. DS Lott I believe you’ve already met; he was there as well. Why don’t you come into my office – Mr Morse, is it?” He unlocks the door and leads them in.

“Actually, it’s DC Morse, sir. Attached to Carshall Newtown. Or at least, I was.”

Thursday stops halfway around his desk. Lott is frozen in the doorway; Thursday nods to him and he unfreezes and disappears to find a line to Carshall, closing the door behind him. 

Thursday indicates the chair in front of his desk, and Morse sits. He takes his own seat, and pulls out his pipe. “Were attached?” he prompts.

“They told me this morning at the hospital it’s January 12th, 1965, sir.”

Thursday nods. “That’s right.”

“The last thing I can remember is coming to Oxford in June – June 3rd. 1963. So I doubt they’ve kept me on the payroll.” His tone is mostly flat, only a faint glimmer of panic bleeding through. Thursday wonders how long he’s had to process the information, how he found out. For an instant his mind begins to form a picture of the young man in Ward 8, staring silently at a calendar in the moonlight. He quashes this almost immediately as ridiculous – for one thing, there are no windows in Old Ironsides. 

“I’m sorry – it’s a long time to lose. It can’t be easy,” he lays his pipe down and meets Morse’s gaze sympathetically.

“Eighteen months. But you’re not surprised,” Morse replies astutely, eyes on Thursday. He’s sharp, watchful; doesn’t miss much, even when he’s hurting. 

Thursday shakes his head slowly, unfolding his hands on the desk in front of him to see if it provokes a similar openness in Morse; it doesn’t. “No. From the looks of things, you’d been where you were some time.” 

“Which was?” He’s sitting so still Thursday’s not sure he’s breathing, wound tight as piano wire.

“I need to ask for your recollection first,” Thursday says, gently.

Morse unwinds all at once, rocking back to run a hand through his hair, frustrated. “My recollection of last night? Hardly anything. Just darkness, dust, smoke. The sound of voices. That’s it.”

“And before?”

Morse shrugs, some of the irritation fading. He speaks to a point somewhere over Thursday’s shoulder, staring into the distance. “I received a letter from a girl I had known in Oxford years ago. We had been something to each other. She asked me to come back, just to talk. So I did.” He shakes his head in self-recrimination, tracing the line of his eyebrow with a restless finger. “I should have known from the start.” 

Thursday raises his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “It was typewritten, for one thing. For another, she never would have…” He closes his eyes, turning away. “… Never mind.”

Looking up, he picks up again in a more factual voice. “I came down by train in the evening – June 3rd. We were to meet in a pub by my old college – the Swan and Cygnet.”

“Your old college,” repeats Thursday, interest peaked. Morse gives a tight, joyless smile. 

“Lonsdale,” he says, without further explanation. “I arrived on time and waited. After a while, almost an hour perhaps, I started to feel off. Dizzy, shaky. I thought it was just nerves at first, but there must have been something in my drink. I went outside for the cool air, but it only got worse.”

His breathing intensifies as he speaks, shoulders hunching in, eyes narrowing. His words come quicker and more thickly, cut straight from memory. 

“I was in a bad way – couldn’t see properly, could hardly walk. There was someone there; I started to cramp up, and he grabbed hold of me. For a moment I thought he was trying to help me.” Morse snorts, disgusted with himself; Thursday supresses the desire to interrupt. “By the time I realised that wasn’t his intention, it was too late. I blacked out almost immediately afterwards. After that, nothing.”

He unfolds slowly, wiping his forehead with the back of a shaky hand as his breathing evens out. Thursday lights his pipe, eyes carefully on the lighter.

“Who would know you could be brought to Oxford by a letter from this Susan?”

“No one in Carshall Newtown,” Morse responds immediately. Then, more reflectively, “In Oxford – almost anyone in my year in Greats at Lonsdale, or hers in St Anne’s. As well as most of the SCR at Lonsdale, I suppose.” He says it with a rather factual kind of despondency.

Thursday gives him a skeptical look; Morse gives a shy little shrug, accompanied by a sad smile.

“It was rather a spectacular break-up. Gossip being what it is, I’m sure it got around at the time. How many people remember it now, I couldn’t say.” 

“Do you have her letter?”

“I didn’t bring it with me. It would be in my room in the dormitory, although I suppose that will have been cleared…” his voice trails off. For the first time his composure fails him completely; he snaps up straight in the chair, eyes widening in horror as his hand tangles in his hair. “My records!” He says it in the same tone another man might say, “My children!” 

Thursday blinks, nonplussed. “Might your family have kept them?” he suggests.

The brief burst of horror is already being replaced by apathy; the lad sinks down, head dropping into his hands. “Sold them, more likely.” He sighs. 

It’s been a long time since Thursday’s seen such earnestness in a DC. Longer still since he saw one still wearing his heart on his sleeve. There’s something infectious about that kind of openness. Or maybe it’s just pity, a desire to lessen some of the lad’s pain – or at least distract from it. 

“There’s an old crypt down below St Giles, all dusty and boarded up,” he says after a moment, puffing on the pipe until it glows cherry-red. He waits for Morse to look up before he continues, smoke curling up around him.

“We came across it by accident, chasing a grave robber. Found you there, in the middle of the set-up for a complicated blood rite. We took you for a statue at first, then a corpse. Wrong both times, as it turns out. It’ll take the gentleman from the university to explain how you were alive without a heartbeat, but I expect it’ll have something to do with whatever rite was being performed. It was the circle of sacrifices being broken that woke … you… ” He trails off as he notices for the first time the fact that Morse’s brown sweater is entirely without a glint of silver. 

Thursday sits up sharply, pipe almost falling from his mouth. “The necklace – where –”

Morse frowns, but reaches under the collar of his shirt and hooks the thin silver chain under his finger, tugging out a few inches of it. “They told me at the hospital I wasn’t to take it off.”

Thursday nods, relaxing. “Right. Don’t.” 

Morse eyes him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Can’t say until we get the word back from the rites specialist, but it’s standard protocol in these cases. You find someone with ritual markings on them, you let them be until they can be removed properly. Taking them off wrong can do far more harm – to you, or those around you. You leave it be ‘til we hear otherwise.”

The lad drops the chain back inside his shirt and wipes his hand off on his sleeve, face freezing over just an instant too late to hide the distress. 

Thursday belatedly realises he’s put his foot in it, but at that moment sees Lott approaching through the window in the office door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Outside he closes the door, leaning up against the frame to keep an eye on Morse as Lott speaks. 

“Well?”

Lott glances at his notebook. “His story checks out. Carshall confirmed that they did have an E. Morse – spent a year and a half in uniform, then transferred to CID in April ’63. He disappeared in June, reported missing on the 5th when he didn’t turn up for work after his day off. The case hasn’t been officially closed, but they never had anything to go on. Apparently he had no close mates, no girl, no one knew where he might’ve disappeared to. Sounds as though they never thought there was much chance of him being found if he didn’t turn up on his own. Given as he’s done such a spectacular job of that here, they’re posting us his records.”

In the office, Morse stands and wanders slowly to the decommissioned fireplace. The mantle is cluttered with old photos and trophies, mostly family things. Morse pushes them gently aside as he browses, looking at one after another.

“Where are we on identifying the other victims?” asks Thursday, glancing at the large glass wall in the centre of the CID office, currently bearing five numbers awaiting more information. It’s an unacceptable blankness.

“We’re starting with a two-week window on either side of June 5th, ’63. All open county missing persons cases.”

“June 3rd – there was no letter in his dormitory asking him to come down to Oxford? It would have been from a girl, Susan.”

Lott glances at his notebook. “No mention of one. No girl, sir,” reminds the DS.

Thursday nods glumly. “Alright. It’s a start.”

“What d’you make of him, sir?” Lott inclines his head towards the glass pane, eyebrows raised in apparently innocent curiosity. Thursday wonders what they’ve been saying at Carshall.

“Reserved. Truthful. Astute.” _Thinks more than he says_ , is the opinion he would offer if there were someone trustworthy to offer it to. “Incidentally, how’s Callahan?” he asks, not interested in staying on this topic.

Lott scratches his nose, giving Thursday a knowing look. “Well, his sergeant’s come down hard on him. I put in a good word, knowing you’d want to and seeing as how the lad’s probably learned his lesson.”

“All right. I’ll speak to him. By the by, Arthur, I want nothing about the girl said to Morse. He doesn’t find out. Understand?” he meets Lott’s gaze head on, expression unmistakable. 

“Yes, sir.”

A sharp movement from inside the office catches Thursday’s eye. By the mantle, Morse shoves one of the pictures away violently, then turns away and strides across the room, rubbing at his eyes. Thursday frowns, looking back to Lott. 

“Alright. I want you to get down to St Giles. Find out how things are coming – particularly with the academic. When he’s done, tell him to come round here; he needs to take a look at Morse.”

“Right, gov’nor.” Lott slips away.

Thursday goes and fetches himself a cup of tea from the canteen, brings one for the lad as well. When he returns, Morse is seated again, apparently calm and collected. He takes the tea with an awkwardness that Thursday suspects is due to his rank; DIs aren’t in the habit of fetching tea for DCs. After eyeballing it for a moment he drinks deeply, unbothered by its thickness – but then, he must be used to station brews.

He looks up after several seconds, cup still half-raised to his lips, eyes wide. “It’s just occurred to me – I’m not dead, am I? Legally, I mean.”

Thursday gives him a measured glance in return. “Remember your trade, lad. Takes seven years to declare a missing person dead. You’re alright.”

He takes a drink of his own tea, and notices that Morse’s cup is nearly empty already.

“Didn’t they feed you at the hospital?” he asks, taken aback.

“There was something advertised as porridge,” says Morse, with the first trace of humour Thursday’s seen from him. 

Thursday digs a couple of coins from his pocket and puts them down on the desk. “You get yourself down to the canteen. It’s not much, but it’ll stick to your innards. Down the stairs and to the left,” he adds, making it clear that it’s not a suggestion. Morse slips the money into his hand and stands.

“Thank you, sir.” He has an awkward formality to him, this lad, proper manners he hasn’t learned to augment with spontaneity. 

Thursday nods, watching him go, then stands himself to look in on Crisp. The phone starts ringing before he makes it to the door. He oscillates for a moment, then retakes his seat.

“Thursday.”

“Dr DeBryn. I thought you might like my preliminary report, given that it will be a considerable wait for the full.”

Thursday blinks. “You work fast, doctor.”

“I don’t know that I would call seven hours fast in my line, inspector,” replies DeBryn, dryly. Thursday glances at his clock. The pathologist must have been on the scene around 2am. Not one of Lott’s predicted 8am crowd, clearly.

“In any case, there are only two findings of interest at this point. The deceased were all in their mid-20s to early 30s – 3 male, 2 female. No apparent cause of death excluding immolation, which I am therefore considering _pro tem_ to be cause of death pending further examination findings.”

“And the points of interest?” asks Thursday, uncapping his pen.

“Yes. First: all corpuses save #5 – the most recently deceased – were wearing silver necklaces. And I am given to understand she too had been in possession of one.”

Thursday sits up. “They all had one? Around their necks?”

“That is the traditional fashion when it comes to necklaces, I believe,” says the pathologist, with his usual latent sarcasm. “Secondly: owing to the state of the remains it will take me some time to verify, but judging by the scarring patterns in the joints and changes in the jaw of victim 5, I suspect she was moon-touched. A lycanthrope,” he adds, after a pregnant pause.

“A wolf? But the necklaces are silver,” protests Thursday, “Or at least, they look it.”

“I would agree at first sight; they will need to go for testing, of course. If she wore it over her clothes, it would be uncomfortable, but not painful.”

“And I don’t suppose she had much choice in the matter,” Thursday muses.

“As you say. I’ll call if I have any further updates.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Inspector.”

Suddenly struck by something, Thursday gets up and crosses to the mantelpiece. The pictures and trophies sit in their crooked line, gathering dust, but one has been shoved far to the back. To an outside eye, Thursday can see nothing unusual about it – similar frame to the others, photograph of a young happy couple amid half a dozen other photographs of young happy people. Thursday frowns thoughtfully, and straightens the picture of Mickey Carter and his widow back into the line.


	3. Chapter 3

Thursday’s next stop is an impromptu meeting with Crisp which is split, unsurprisingly, between the casework and the media. The station leaks like a sieve on the best of days, so it can’t be long before a story makes it into the _Mail_. Might take another day for photographs, if they’re lucky.

Lott catches his eye as he comes out, leaving Crisp to phone the chief constable. “The academic’s here, sir. Dr Porter from King’s college. I put him in your office.”

Thursday nods. They cut through the CID office, picking up Morse as they pass. He’s sitting in a corner chair doing a crossword on his knee; most of the squares are already filled in. He leaves it on the chair behind him and trails behind silently.

The man waiting for them in Thursday’s office is unquestionably an academic: tweed coat, thick glasses, chalk dust on his sleeve and ink on his cuff. He’s in his early fifties with receding hair, an expanding waistline, and a pleasant face. He’s brought a Gladstone bag with him, much worn. 

“Dr Thomas Porter, Professor Emeritus of Blood Rites at King’s.”

“DI Thursday, DS Lott, DC Morse,” introduces Thursday briefly, indicating the sofa and chairs to the right of his desk. 

Porter shakes hands with all three of them, but lingers over Morse. “It was you who was found in the crypt, was it not?” he asks, politely, smiling at Morse’s surprise. “There’s a feel to people who’ve been touched by powerful rites – almost like a low-level current. If you’ve performed enough of them yourself, you start to notice it. Besides that, you don’t seem to be in standard dress for a policeman,” he adds, taking a seat in the chair beside Lott, who chokes back a snigger.

Thursday pulls his chair over, leaving Morse to the sofa. “I understand you’ve been to examine the crypt, doctor? What can you tell us – what was the rite designed for? Who performed it?”

Porter sighs, leaning back and tapping the arms of the chair. “Those are the two big questions, inspector, and I’m afraid I don’t have entirely satisfactory answers. The rite was a blood rite, very old, very powerful, and very dark. If it had been completed successfully – which it was not – it would have resulted in resurrection.”

Thursday feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck as a chill slices down his spine. In his chair, Lott hisses. “You mean raising the dead?”

“In a way. The dead cannot ever truly be brought back to life – there is no magic in the world that can accomplish that, not with a hundred sacrifices, or a thousand. What would be brought back would be a mockery of human life, twisted, monstrous. Blood-touched.”

Thursday shivers. “Why in God’s name would anyone – ”

Porter turns to look at him, milky eyes surprisingly shrewd. 

“There are only two reasons, inspector. Either it was his intention to create a monster – they are loyal servants, strong, fast, and vicious. Or it was his intention to regain someone he lost whom he cherished above all others. There are always those who refuse to believe, no matter the warnings and proofs of the past, that they cannot retake love from death’s bony grasp.” 

“You can’t tell who was being raised?”

“No. Bones or teeth must be provided during the rite, but they had been consumed, along with the rest of the components of the reaction. Whoever performed this is an expert – highly educated, very proficient. A scholar. They made a small mistake – I would need more time to discover it, and even then I might not find it; it would take familiarity with this specific rite. Whatever it was, it threw off the reaction.”

He folds his hands together, taking on a lecturing tone. “When that happens, there is very little time to react, and if the rite is powerful enough the result can be disastrous. One must act immediately, and even then much is lost. First, all the catalysts are destroyed – oddly-numbered sets of precisely-weighed precious metals or crystal, usually very valuable. Then the trappings of the rite itself – they’re intersected by too many lines of power to be saved. They’re also usually hard to obtain, in this case the bone or teeth of whoever was being raised and some other contraband items. Next are the sacrifices, and by this time if the mage is on his toes he might be able to shut down the reaction.” 

Here Porter pauses and looks across to Morse, watching with his arms folded across his chest. “Unfortunately, what I believe occurred in your case is that the reaction had already begun to spread by the time he managed to stop it, and it wasn’t as simple as just terminating it. He tried to protect you by pushing you out beyond its reach. People can be put in a state almost at the edge of death where time moves past them rather than through them, kept there by a low-level stream of magic. But something went wrong with that, too, and only two of you made it.” He shakes his head.

“What would have happened, had the rite succeeded? To me – to us?” asks Morse, sitting up, his hands slipping down to rest on his knees. His face has a clawed look to it, tight and terse. 

“You would have died, I’m afraid,” answers Porter, simply. “It would have been instantaneous; you wouldn’t have known anything about it,” he adds in a kindly tone.

Morse swallows thickly, eyes wide, almost unseeing. Then he stands. “Excuse me.” He moves stiffly but quickly to the door and lets himself out. Thursday rises to follow, but pauses for a moment, looking at Porter.

“Doctor – is there any reason it would be those particular two of the six who lived – Morse and the young lady?”

Porter tugs thoughtfully at his chin. “It’s all to do with spiritual energy, inspector. Strength of natural currents, how easily one is able to align with the magic that maintains the near-death state. Some people are more compatible than others.”

“The pathologist suspects the woman who survived was a wolf. Would that do it?” he asks flatly.

Porter raises his eyebrows; beside him, Lott stiffens an instant too late to hide the initial wave of disgust that sweeps over his features.

“Yes, I should think so, inspector,” says Porter, authoritatively. “May I ask – is DC Morse – ?”

Thursday shakes his head firmly. “No. I’m sure you’re aware that no one moon-touched can hold any responsible office, which of course includes the police. The Radcliffe confirmed this morning that he hasn’t been turned.”

Porter shrugs. “Well, some people are more sensitive to the supernatural. Or it may just have been luck.” 

Thursday nods. “Of course.” He picks up his momentum again. “I’ll be right back.”

Out in the CID office, Burrows points him to the lav. “Should’a stayed away from the special down the canteen, Guv’nor,” he diagnoses, hardly looking up from his typewriter.

The 2nd floor men’s lav in Cowley Station is small – 2 urinals, 1 flimsy wooden stall. Its tiny window is open 24/7 all year round – in the winter, this is mostly to let out the smell of the paint burning off the radiator, still preferable to the smell in the summer months.

Thursday steps in, soles tapping on the chipping tile, and glances around the apparently empty room. He reaches behind him and locks the door, then strides forwards across the two yards to the stall.

Morse is bent over the toilet, one arm up against the wall for balance. He spins around to slam the door shut as Thursday rounds the corner, but Thursday’s faster. It bangs off his forearm and into the wall once, hard, before he stops it with his foot. 

For a moment Morse just crouches there staring up at Thursday, the curve of his back rising and falling nearly an inch with each breath, face white, blue eyes horrified. Then he pulls himself to his feet all at once, stumbling into the stall wall. 

“They died for _nothing_ ,” he snarls, voice low and guttural. “Not even greed, or jealously, or passion. Just ignorance and… and pathetic small-minded selfishness… and in the end not even that.” He digs down into his sweater with a violent hand and pulls out the necklace. It spins as it hangs from his hand, fine silver shining dully in the dirty light of the men’s lav. 

“ _What am I_?” he demands, hoarsely, desperately, shaking the thin chain. Thursday tenses. “A pawn? A sheep, awaiting slaughter?” He tightens his fist and Thursday barrels into the stall, grabbing his wrist in a steely grip and slamming him up against the wall. 

“Don’t you take that off, lad,” Thursday growls, low and earnest and angry. “You’re scared and you’re hurt, and fair enough. But you’ve a heart and a soul still your own; that’s what I see – no pawn, no puppet. So you put that away, and we’ll take your questions to Dr Porter and see what he knows. But until he says you take it off, don’t you touch it again.” He stares straight into Morse’s eyes, keeping his crushing grip on the lad’s wrist until finally Morse looks away and opens his hand. The necklace falls free, swinging back and forth across his chest. 

Thursday releases him, backing off a step. Morse rubs at his wrist, shaking his head petulantly. “Why are you so afraid of it?”

“You heard Porter – when these rites go wrong they go wrong badly. The results are dangerous,” lies Thursday, smoothly.

“The rite is _over!_ ” He kicks at the toilet, then pushes past Thursday to the sink. 

“We’re not sure of that yet,” says Thursday, calmly.

Morse looks at him in the mirror, frozen in the act of turning on the faucet. Thursday nods at the sink.

“Finish up. You’ve got some questions for Porter.”

  
***

“Sorry about that,” says Thursday, closing the door behind Morse. Lott and Porter break off their conversation. “All present.”

“While you were here, doctor, we were hoping you could take a look at DC Morse. We’ve had him keep the necklace everyone found was wearing – standard procedure – but he’d be glad to have it off, if he could…”

Porter stands, straightening his glasses. “Quite right, quite right.”

Morse stiffens as the professor comes to stand in front of him, picking the necklace’s pendant up in the palm of his hand and holding it up to look at it closely. “It would be very helpful, inspector, if I could have the opportunity to examine one of the other pieces,” he says, tilting his glasses to make them magnify. “This is a compass – not literally, of course.” He lets it slip carefully out of his hand and glances around to address all three men. 

“They are used to demarcate and stream sacrifices into the reaction. The more complex the rite, the more complex the compass. They must be matched, perfectly. This one looks like German or Swiss workmanship to me, from perhaps the seventeenth or eighteenth century.” 

“Can I take it off?” asks Morse, sounding edgy. Porter blinks.

“Apologies – I forget that your interest is much more practical than my own. As for that, it depends.” He turns to Thursday. “Do you have a scrying room here, inspector?”

Thursday nods. “In the basement.”

“Then we shall see.” He fetches his Gladstone bag from beside Thursday’s desk, and follows Thursday out into the hall, Morse in tow and Lott bringing up the rear.

  
***

They get the key and two phials of phosphorous from the duty sergeant in the cell block, heading all the way to the end of the corridor and then down the iron staircase in the far corner. The basement on this side of the station is disused, filled with old boxes and heaps of rubbish. Sitting alone in the corner like some bizarre builder’s mistake is a box of welded iron, its door raised and sealed like a submarine’s. There’s a fan set high in one wall, covered over with iron mesh; Lott switches it on while Thursday unlocks the door. “Been an age since anyone was in there,” the sergeant mutters.

“What is this place?” asks Morse, staring. Thursday turns to him, eyebrows raised.

“You’ve never been to Carshall’s safe room?” he asks levelly. 

“They don’t have one,” says Morse, giving him a confused look.

“Oh, they’ve got one. You’ve just never come across it. Count yourself lucky.” Thursday finishes with the lock and shoves down the long, heavy handle. It opens with a clank and the door swings open. 

There are no electric lights here; the glass is too sensitive to breakage. Instead in each corner there’s a tiny phosphorous lamp. Thursday sets up two of them, more than enough to illuminate the small room. There’s no furniture, nothing on the walls or ceiling, the smooth concrete floor completely bare. The only adornment in the room, if they could be called that, are old shillings soldered onto the iron of the wall, one every two feet or so at head height. Each one of them dates from before 1920, Thursday knows, when the coins were more than 90% sterling silver. 

Porter looks around and nods. “This will do.” He puts down his bag and opens it, produces from within some chalk, a candlestick and a candle. “It will take me a few minutes.”

Morse looks to Thursday, standing against the wall to give Porter the space to work. “I don’t understand – what is this?”

Thursday answers while watching Porter sketch out lines in chalk on the floor; he moves quickly, with the confidence of long practice. “You were at the hospital this morning – Ward 8. When they take in patients who they suspect of being moon-touched – or God forbid blood-touched – they keep them there. This is our Ward 8. It also serves to conduct rituals, or keep those who are in danger from blood rites safe. Every station has one, hidden away somewhere. Tricks of the trade, lad.” 

Morse shivers. 

“Look down on it if you like, but it saves lives,” puts in Lott from the other side of the room, smoking a cigarette. Morse gives him an unreadable look, saying nothing in response.

“There,” announces Porter a minute later, setting the candle-holder in the middle of the complex chalk diagram he’s constructed. It’s an unsymmetrical shape, an odd mesh of a circle and a triangle, filled with hatched lines and runes, and Thursday starts to get dizzy looking at it and has to stop. Porter screws the candle he brought into the holder and lights it with a perfectly ordinary lighter, and gestures for Morse to sit down on the other side of the chalked lines. “Please be sure not to scuff anything,” he says, as Morse crosses the room.

Thursday closes the door quietly as Morse settles himself, and Porter takes out several small silver jars from his bag and sets them at points around the diagram. “Roll up your sleeves, please. Wouldn’t want any accidents,” requests Porter in a friendly tone. Morse does as he’s told, pushing up the pull-over and then rolling up the sleeves of the shirt beneath. 

Beside him, Lott jerks as though struck, cigarette falling from his fingers. An instant later his eyes snap to Thursday, and then back to Morse pointedly, mouth curling into a tight grin as he slowly grinds the cigarette out beneath his foot. 

Morse’s forearms are completely bare, untouched by any tattoo-needle. Thursday supposes if the lad had third-degree burns on both arms it would be more shocking, but not much. There are two things every constable does after getting his tunic: get pissed, and get inked – in that order. 

“It’s a simple test,” Porter is saying; Thursday forces himself to focus on the scene before him rather than the DC’s astounding lack of self-preservation. “If you are still tied to the rite, this will detect that energy, and the flame will surge up. If not, nothing will happen. Either way, the flame is perfectly safe – it cannot hurt you. Understand? Just put your hand over the candle. It won’t burn you.”

Morse reaches out slowly with his right hand, palm about an inch above the flame. He stops a few inches away, closing his eyes, and then pushes it forwards all at once.

The flame surges up nearly two feet tall, gentle yellow flaring deep red and licking hungrily outwards. Morse gives a shout and tumbles backwards, scrambling away. Thursday hurries over to pull him away, but the flame is already falling back to its original height. Porter nips it out with his fingers and it dies with a wisp of smoke. 

“Can you break the connection?” asks Thursday, while Morse tries to catch his breath on the floor beside him. 

The look Porter gives him answers the question before he speaks. “I’m sorry, I can’t. There are dozens of variations, and a small mistake could be fatal. I would need to know precisely which rite was used.” He wipes a hand across the careful chalk lines, and they run together into a grey cloud. Diagram destroyed, he returns his candle and candlestick to his bag, and stands. “I wish I had better news for you, DC Morse. I will continue to study the crypt – if we can attribute the rite, we can break the connection. Until then, under no circumstances remove the compass.”

Morse stares up at him silently, face a study in dismay.

Thursday follows Porter out into the hallway. “Dr Porter – one more thing. If the rite is still active, is there a chance the blood mage might try to perform it again?”

Porter sighs. “Psychologically, I have no idea. In terms of raw materials – it would be difficult. Setting aside the horrific loss of human life resultant from his first failure, he has lost a fortune. The most difficult item to procure would likely be another six matching compasses of the necessary description and authenticity. But if you are asking my opinion… if someone was willing to risk such outrageous consequences to try it once, I don’t see why they wouldn’t be willing to do so twice.”

Thursday nods. “Thank you, doctor. Arthur, would you show Dr Porter out, please?”

He waits for them to start up the stairway, then steps back into the safe room. Morse is still sitting against the far wall, legs drawn up towards his chest with arms across the knees, his head resting on them.

“I never wanted to come back to Oxford in the first place,” he says, barely understandable.

Thursday sighs. “Come on. You need a change of scene.”


	4. Chapter 4

Morse spends the car ride staring out the window at the streets of Oxford; reflected in the window, Thursday can see his eyes tracing over the ancient stonework and dreamy spires, mouth sketching a hesitant frown. It occurs to Thursday that it was dark when he arrived this morning. “Never looks its best in winter, does it?” he says, conversationally.

Morse doesn’t answer, gaze far away. He’s picked up an ancient, much-patched rain coat from the Cowley lost-and-found for the trip; it’s a heavy olive-green canvas, and would look militaristic if it weren’t nearly two sizes too large for him. He doesn’t complain, though, just rolls up the sleeves and tries to hitch the shoulders up to sit properly.

He doesn’t say anything when they pull in at the Swan and Cygnet either, although he does give Thursday a questioning look; Thursday shrugs. “I am on the clock, lad.” 

He lets Morse go in first which may be a mistake as the DC stops the moment he gets in the doorway. He picks up his pace a moment later though, allowing himself to be herded into the pub. “It feels like I was here yesterday,” he says to Thursday, looking around with sharp eyes, “It’s mostly the same, but there are changes – some of the decor, the table lay-out.”

“See anyone you recognize?” 

They walk slowly through the building as though looking for a table, Morse scanning the wait staff. Only when they’ve made the full circuit do they take a table by the front alcove, Thursday putting down his sandwich and Morse taking a seat. “The only one I recognize is the barman – he looks older, and a bit thinner. “

Thursday nods. “We’ll talk to him after lunch. I’ll fetch you a pint.”

Morse raises an arm to stop him before he can leave. “Actually, sir, I don’t drink.”

“What did you have when you were here, then?”

He shrugs, rubbing at his eyebrow somewhat sheepishly. “Lemonade.”

“Alright, then.” Thursday fetches the same from the bar, asking for a menu while he’s there. 

He returns with the brimmed glasses and passes the pale yellow drink across to Morse, ice clinking; the DC takes it with a slow hand, fingers slipping against the condensation. He stares at it for a moment before taking a cautious drink. “Sweeter, I think. But perhaps that’s just paranoia.” He pushes it away from him with straight fingers, making a wet trail on the table. 

“Not one for minding what others think, are you?” says Thursday, taking a sip of his beer. Morse looks at him quizzically, and Thursday nods at the glass. “That, for one. These, for another,” he adds, pulling up his sleeve far enough to expose the first of the dark bands of ink sweeping over his wrist, intertwined with images of narrower charms. 

Morse glances at Thursday’s arm, surprised. “But those don’t actually work,” he says, incredulously. 

“Don’t they?” asks Thursday dryly. “Studied Rites at Lonsdale, did you?”

“No – Greats. But I do know that rites require more than ink to work. That’s just superstition and wishful thinking.”

Thursday unwraps his sandwich, keeping his tone easy and conversational. “I’ve seen plenty of things that can’t be explained – most of us have; we don’t live in a world of science and reason, not wholly. Sometimes hope is worth a little pain, lad. And sometimes solidarity is, too. You might take my advice on that.” 

Morse gives him an unimpressed look, and Thursday pushes the menu forward. “Hungry?”

***

The conversation with the barman, held after sandwiches and chips, is brief. It establishes, unsurprisingly, that not only does he not remember Morse, he doesn’t remember anyone else who was in the pub 18 months ago.

***

Lott is waiting for Thursday in the CID office when they get back, Morse returning to his chair and the crumpled newspaper shoved down behind it. He makes a noise of irritation as he retrieves it, and Thursday glances over and notes that someone has filled in all of the crossword squares with red ink.

“Got something you’ll want to see out at St Giles,” says Lott, pulling away Thursday’s attention, his face a study in earnestness. “Didn’t have time to fill you in before.”

“Alright. I’ve got the keys.” He waits for Lott to fetch his coat and hat. On the other side of the room, Morse tosses his crossword in the waste-paper basket, the movement curiously ignored by every other man in the room.

***

The entrance to the bell tower at St Giles has been blocked off by a police barricade and is guarded by PC Nixon, who lets them through with a nervous nod. Inside a scaffold has been set up, and Thursday can see that they’ve begun to saw up the wooden floor.

“Enlarging the entrance, sir, so they can sway up the bodies. The pathologist says they’re too fragile to get out otherwise. Won’t be ready ‘til tomorrow.”

Thursday nods and follows Lott down the ladder into the corridor below. It’s far brighter than he remembers, phosphorous lamps set up along the right-hand wall.

“We sent a patrol a ways further down the tunnel – just to secure the access. Turns out there’s another room, just a stone’s throw away. Same side, adjoining walls.” He leads the way past the crypt – guarded by another PC – to the second door. This is unguarded, wooden door closed and blocked off by another barricade, which he pushes aside.

Like the tunnel, the room has been lit by phosphorous lamps, glowing the soft green that always reminds Thursday of summer fireflies – one of his very few fond memories of Italy. It’s a small space, perhaps five yards by five, stone walls roughly squares although the shifting earth has warped them over the centuries so that they bulge gently in and out. Lying about the floor, evenly spaced out, are five lengths of chain beside five thick brackets affixed to the stone.

“Seems this is where the victims were kept,” says Lott from beside the door, arms crossed, as Thursday rounds the room. “Suppose it took some time for him to round ‘em all up. Only there are five spots – not six. Looks like someone went willing,” he finishes, voice thick with insinuation.

Thursday stops where he is, currently crouching to examine one of the lengths of chain – thin but strong, with a small padlock on the end – and looks across at Lott. “Care to expand that thought, Arthur?”

“I’m just saying, there’s something off about Morse, guv’nor. Carshall didn’t know what to make of him – he put plenty of backs up, and when he went missing, they let him sink without a trace once the requisite time had passed. ‘Sides, you saw his arms. He’s either mad, or made his own arrangements.” 

Thursday straightens, face expressionless. “And if the girl had survived instead, would you be suggesting she was in on it? See sense, Arthur – he’s alive through nothing but luck, and he knows it. Or are you suggesting he intended to burn?” he asks, letting just an edge of anger slip into his tone. “Does he strike you as the martyr type? He doesn’t me.”

“As for this,” Thursday looks around, breaking off before his temper pushes him too far. “I’d say that whoever took them didn’t bother to lock up whoever was taken last. There’s nothing to store food or water in – bastard can’t have held them long. Morse remembers nothing, which may mean he was last taken. Get onto the vicar at St Giles and ask about any disturbances on June 3rd or 4th, ’63.” 

Lott gives him an unenthusiastic nod. “Yes, sir.”

“You can make your own way back, I’m sure. See you at the nick.”

***

There’s a flat envelope waiting for Thursday on his desk when he gets back – registered mail. He slits it open with his pen-knife – a remnant of his London days, double-bladed, silver and iron. Inside are two files: Morse’s personnel file and his missing person’s report. Thursday sits down and opens the former first, eyebrows climbing as he reads the name printed at the top. After a few minutes, he picks up the phone and dials the operator.

“Somerset House, please. Yes. Yes – this is Detective Inspector Thursday, badge # 259687. I’m looking for the signatory physician on the death certificate of Constance Morse, died in 1950, probably in Lincolnshire. Thank you. Yes, I’ll hold.”

***

When Lott comes in a few hours later, Thursday is standing looking out the window at the dark evening sky, the red glow of his pipe casting a red reflection of his face in the glass. Both files are lying face down on the desk.

Thursday turns, eyes falling from Lott’s Cassandra-like grin to the newspaper in his hands.

“Our lad’s made the paper,” the DS says, coming forward and tossing it down on Thursday’s desk.

The front-page article of the evening edition of the Mail reads: _Massive Blood Rite Beneath St Giles_. In smaller font below, even more damning: _1 Survivor Found._

“Who the _hell_ leaked this?” demands Thursday, throwing his pipe down. He stands, chair slamming into the wall behind his desk, and strides over to bang his door closed so violently the glass quivers in its frame. In the outer office, several men jump at their desks.

“Couldn’t exactly keep it a secret, Fred,” says Lott, trying for ingratiating and hitting supercilious. Thursday rounds on him, all hell and fury.

“The rite? No. A survivor? Yes, I think we bloody well could have suppressed that. The lad’s a target now. If whatever bastard did this gets it in his head to try again, Morse is the obvious place to start.”

Lott sucks at his teeth. “We don’t know he will.”

“And we don’t know he won’t. For God’s sake, the lad’s one of us,” says Thursday, appalled.

“Is he, sir?” asks Lott, raising his eyebrows.

Thursday pushes past Lott, scoops up the file on his desk, flips it open and rips off the picture clipped onto the inner cover. He holds it up, Morse in uniform looking slightly concussed as he stares into the camera. “Yes, he is,” snaps Thursday, shaking the photograph. “And the fact that he’s long on education and short on street sense doesn’t mean we turn our backs on him.”

He slams the photo down and moves back to stand in front of his DS. “It’s not hard to see that the rumours are already flying,” he begins, glancing towards the CID office. 

“Didn’t start them, sir,” interrupts Lott, virtuously.

“And you didn’t stop them, either. But either way, they stop as of now. You know the taps in this station; how to turn them up or down – you shut them clean off on this.” 

Thursday takes a breath and slows his words so that they sink in, like knives. “Further – no one says anything to any paper about Morse. Not one word – not even ‘he.’ Our man knows there were two as made it through the rite – he doesn’t know which woke up. That’s the only lead we’ve got, now. If we lose it, I will bring shit down upon this station the likes of which has never been seen in Oxford, Arthur, starting with you and working my way down the line. You can pass that along from me.” He stands back, moving to leave a straight path to the door. “That’s all. Send Morse in.”

Lott gives him a dirty look and leaves, muttering something inaudible and probably profane to Morse in the outer office.

The lad rounds the doorway looking apprehensive. Thursday reaches across to pick up the newspaper and hands it to him. “You can read it in the car; we’ve got somewhere to go.”

***

It’s not a long article; Morse finishes it not more than halfway to the church, paper rustling in his hands as he folds it closed. “Will you release my name?” he asks eventually, staring out the passenger window, voice flat.

“Not if we can help it,” replies Thursday grimly, meaning _I_. 

Outside, it starts to rain.

***

They park in the church car park and hurry quickly across the muddy gravel. It’s not much warmer in the church but it is dry, and they stop momentarily to wipe their shoes and shake the rain off their coats at the entrance.

Thursday leads the way down the now-familiar path to the catacombs, through the nearly-completed expansion to the hatchway into the tunnel below. It’s beginning to smell of pine at least, a pleasant change to the scent of mildew and smoke.

Shift change isn’t for another half-hour; the same PC is standing guard on the crypt door as was there before. Thursday nods to him, and he pushes it open and steps in behind. Thursday turns as he goes by, catching the look the constable gives Morse – part uncertainty, part fear. He waits for Morse to enter, then puts his hand on the young PC’s arm. 

“Alright, you can wait outside. Won’t be long.” It’s technically against procedure, but PCs don’t buck orders from DIs. This one nods and disappears without argument, still staring at Morse. 

Thursday closes the door behind him, and leans up against the wall of the crypt’s antechamber. Morse is standing a few steps further in; his eyes slant to the closed door and back to Thursday warily. Thursday stays where he is, leaving the lad plenty of space.

“Seems there are some rumours circulating about you. Don’t know the specifics myself, but given the origins, I suspect they have to do with your status as a blood mage, or moon-touched, or even blood-touched,” he says, tiredly. “There’s no limit to what people are willing to believe when it’s to someone’s disadvantage, lad, and coppers can be as credulous as the next bastard.” He straightens, moving away from the door and the PC’s possibly prying ears. 

“Nevertheless, what we both know is that they’re not entirely wrong – are they?” 

Morse watches him silently, eyes sharp and guarded. Thursday walks further into the crypt, forcing Morse to move on ahead of him.

“I don’t believe in luck, Morse – not on the magnitude that sees two live and four die. I just don’t see the need to bypass the obvious in favour of the sensational. You’ve already given yourself away several times over. That picture on my mantle you knocked out of place – looks innocent enough, but I imagine it must be razor-sharp with rage and regret. Then there’s the tattoos – of course you wouldn’t bother with them; you can’t be turned. And your name, and your mother’s – they got me onto the fact that she had been a Quaker; I called her parish to confirm it. It runs more commonly in those communities; pacifism and social values, I suppose.” He stops, raising his eyebrows quizzically. “Or am I wrong?”

“What is it exactly you are accusing me of, inspector?” Morse asks, shakily.

“It’s not an accusation, Morse, just fact. You’re sun-touched. An empath.”

Morse wipes a hand slowly across his face, trying to stare down Thursday. Thursday gazes back evenly, utterly unshakable. Finally Morse’s eyes drop to the floor and he nods. He glances up a moment later, half fearful, half defiant, to catch Thursday’s reaction.

Thursday simply nods. “Alright then. Should be in your file, but given the current state of ignorance and prejudice in the Force, I can’t say as I blame you for its absence. Speaking for myself, it gives me no pause – the law makes no distinction between sun-touched and human, and nor do I. That out of the way, perhaps you’d like to lend a hand now.”

Morse is staring at him in open bafflement. “Sir?”

Thursday looks back honestly. “We’ve dozens of potential files to match to these victims, and possibly hundreds of suspects. We need to narrow that list down. I’m willing to temporarily overlook the fact that you aren’t an investigating officer and allow you to offer an opinion, given you were present during the crime.” He watches Morse’s eyes slide past him, moving from one tomb to the next. The lad swallows slowly, looking faintly ill in the pale green light. 

“I’m not a telepath, sir. I’ve never read a corpse before, but the most there will be is remnants of emotions –”

“It’s still better than nothing, which is what we currently have. And what we will, unless we get lucky matching half-destroyed skulls to potentially non-existent dental records.” Thursday watches inquiringly as Morse continues to stare, gaze shifting rapidly from point to point in the crypt, never settling long. Finally the lad nods, stiff and silent. 

Morse walks past the tomb they found him on, tracing his fingers over the now-dustless surface; he glances inquiringly at Thursday, who nods. He moves on wordlessly, elbows held tightly to his sides, and stops by the first corpse. The body has been neatly laid out by DeBryn post-photography and initial examination. Morse hardly glances at it, staring mostly at the wall behind, but after a moment reaches out a hesitant hand and rests it gently on the blackened forearm. His shoulders hunch inwards, breathing shortening and muscles tensing. Thursday watches silently.

It’s been a long time since he worked with an empath. That had been London, where the caseload was more desperate, and secrets more easily kept. But Mann had been a consultant, not a copper; a shrunken, withdrawn, taciturn man nearing his 70s by the time Thursday had left for Oxford. He had seemed at the time one of the least empathic people Thursday had ever met – never swore, never smiled, and never gave an inch – and Thursday had put him down as a masochist for doing a job he didn’t enjoyed and barely profited from.

It was only years later that Thursday found out what happened to his two children, targeted by a group of bigots during the chaos of the war when fear had been running at fever pitch. 

Morse lifts his hand away and Thursday blinks, falling out of his memories. “Well?” he asks, but Morse shakes his head distractedly and moves to the next tomb. Thursday moves quietly to stand nearer to his side to keep an eye; the lad’s new at this, after all, and empaths are most at risk of skidding out when reading bodies. 

He repeats himself there, actions more confident, breathing somewhat more laboured. He stays longer, hand lingering over bone, and then turns to look over his shoulder at Thursday. He’s squinting hard as though into the sun, fingers shifting over ash. “Familiarity,” he says, in a low, guttural voice. “They knew him. Anger, fear, disbelief. Their reactions are different, but they both knew whoever did this.” 

He goes to the next, fingers already blackened, and lets out his breath as he puts his hand down on the cold bone. “Here, too,” he says after a minute, shivering. “Recognition. Rage. Horror.” His voice, although full of pain, is clear and coherent; he’s undoubtedly still in control.

By the time he reaches the fourth, Morse is sweating. He only touches the burnt bone for a handful of seconds before pulling his hand away, nodding silently to Thursday. His eyes are very narrow, only slivers of blue visible in the poor light. 

Morse moves to the final tomb and reaches out; Thursday steps between, grabbing hold of his wrist halfway to the stone surface. “That’s enough, lad. That’s enough.”

Morse looks up at him, then past to the last victim – #5. “There’s still one more.”

“Four is enough,” repeats Thursday stonily, keeping his eyes on Morse. 

Morse stares at him, head canted to the side. “What are you afraid of? No – not just fear. Guilt; shame. I’ve felt it before.” He reaches out with his other hand and raises it to his neck, hooks his finger through the thin silver chain around his neck. “It’s this, isn’t it?”

Thursday releases his wrist, but it’s already too late. His heart has betrayed him, and it’s his own damn fault.

“What happened, sir?” Morse asks, plainly. “You owe me the truth.” 

Thursday rubs at one of the rough patches on his coat with his thumb. Even a hard brush won’t get it off; the fabric is dark enough that they’re hard to pick out, but the burn marks will be impossible to remove. 

“When we arrived there was you, lying there like a statue, and the others already dead, as I said,” Thursday begins eventually, looking up and meeting Morse’s gaze head-on. “What I didn’t mention is that there was one other like you, near death, but still alive. Her.” He nods to the body in front of them, and Morse glances down at her for an instant before looking back to Thursday. 

“There were four of us, Lott and I, and two constables, both green but one with the shine still on the bottom of his shoes. I sent them over to check her, make sure she wasn’t a vampire waiting for a midnight snack, and the greenhorn noticed she was wearing the same necklace as you. And he took it off to compare it.” Thursday shakes his head, eyes closed. 

“The bastard who did this might’ve killed the other four, but we did for her. That’s the truth of it.” Any further words he might have had are swallowed up by the jagged-edged hole in his throat.

Morse reaches down and draws his fingers through the dark charcoal on the edge of the tomb, bright, black and new. “It’s almost ironic,” he says, sourly.

Thursday rubs at his eyes. “What’s that?” he asks, tiredly.

“You don’t know where the name comes from? Sun-touched?” he asks, without looking up from the corpse in front of him. “Industrialization, densification have made hunting so much easier that we know by heart what we need to survive – moon-touched: death by silver. Blood-touched: death by iron. Telepathy, empathy, precognition? Compared to wolves and vampires and ghouls, few people bother to remember about them today. They haven’t been terrifying since the middle-ages, when they seemed like black magic – evil, no different than fangs and claws. Of course, they’re just humans with an extra sense; they die like anyone else. As they were taken for witches, though, they mostly burned at the stake. Sun-touched: death by fire.” He lets the words fall like stones, rubbing his ash-covered fingers together as he speaks. 

Thursday lays a hand on his shoulder. “Morse…”

Morse turns to him, eyes blazing bright. “And yet here I am, and there they are. How can I possibly make that right?” he asks, voice cracking.

“It’s not your place to,” says Thursday firmly, tightening his grip. “You’re not at fault. Don’t you let yourself think you were.” 

Morse just stares at him, half pained, half incredulous. 

Keeping eye contact, Thursday takes his hand from Morse’s shoulder and grips the lad’s fingers; they’re cold and slick with cinders. “You can listen with your ears or your heart; please yourself. You need to hear it either way: None of you had a choice in this, and none of you bore any guilt. Not 18 months ago, not now. You don’t owe anything, Morse. Which isn’t to say you haven’t given anything,” he adds, turning Morse’s hand over so that the ash glints like flint in the low light. 

Thursday can feel his own heartbeat in his chest, and knows even if Morse can’t feel his pulse he can feel what it carries: sympathy, respect, rough-edged compassion, and the low-level rage that’s been simmering beneath the surface of his thoughts since last night.

Morse pulls his hand free gently. “Then let me finish, sir. Please.” He meets Thursday’s hard look head-on, no longer scornful, just straight-forward and open. “It’s what you brought me for.”

Thursday holds his gaze for another few seconds and then nods, moving aside. “It’s your choice.”

“Thank you, sir.” Morse steps forward and reaches out. His eyes slide closed as he inhales, entire body tensing. Then he sighs, dropping his hand, and steps away. He looks at Thursday and crooks his mouth up unevenly, arms crossed over his chest and hands closed tight around his arms. “She knew the mage, like the others. Which means I most likely did as well.”

He sounds quietly resigned, but standing there in his too-large coat with his arms wrapped tight as wire he looks forlorn, alone. Unsurprising, given the circumstances. Thursday resists the urge to take his shoulder; gives him a sympathetic look instead.

“Well done, lad. Come along now. We can get started on a list first thing tomorrow.” Thursday leans towards the exit. Morse doesn’t move, keeps his place beside the tomb, eyes soulful. 

“One more thing, sir. She wasn’t awake when it happened – last night. She didn’t feel anything,” he says in a soft tone. 

Thursday nods, looking down at the ruined corpse. It’s one tiny comfort in a world of wrongs, but it’s the only one he has. “Thank you, Morse.”

The lad lets his breath out and releases his fingers, hands slipping down into his pockets; there are black bands left behind on either arm, ash painted thickly on the green canvas. He pulls his coat more tightly around him and looks around the crypt once more before nodding to Thursday: ready to go. 

Thursday leads the way out, Morse following close behind. “Until we know more, I think you’d better consider yourself under police protection. You can sleep at the nick for now; there’s the sofa in my office, since I doubt you’d fancy the cell block.” 

“I suppose it’s one economy,” he says; Thursday turns to smile at the humour as he opens the door and sees only exhaustion in Morse’s face.


	5. INTERLUDE

Morse wakes from a fitful sleep to rolls his head back against the wooden frame of the sofa in Inspector Thursday’s office, trying for what feels like the hundredth time to find a way to rest his neck comfortably; as with every other time, he eventually gives up and tries to resign himself to a cramp. Like most love-seats, the sofa wasn’t designed for sleeping; it’s stuffed with what feels like horse-hair, and even with his feet jammed down between the side and the cushion Morse’s knees are still nearly even with the top of the back-rest. 

It’s sometime in the early morning; if he cared to look at his watch, he could tell for certain. Although the lights are off here and in the outer CID office, the blinds are open and the full moon is shining in bright and relentless, painting the office in tones of grey. It was the moon that woke him, framed in the centre of the window directly across from him – that, and the pain in his neck. Morse absently notes the horseshoe nailed above the window; it’s been there so long it’s not only been painted over but papered over. 

They have iron strips at Carshall, bought in bulk from a construction firm, bright and utilitarian. 

It’s just one small example of the overall difference between the two stations. Like most of Oxford, Cowley Station is old, the stonework and foundations dating back centuries. In that time the hundreds of thousands of people passing through it have left an impression. Even in the dead of night, in silence and in darkness, the station feels soft-edged, lived-in. Carshall Newton is new, a ten year-old concrete monstrosity, all straight lines and beige walls. It has neither history nor character, and is crisp, cold and lifeless. It was never an ambition of Morse’s to spend a night in a police station, but Cowley is certainly the preferable choice. 

Twinging neck bringing him out of a light doze once again, Morse turns with a sigh, eyes sweeping over the grey room. It has the same ambient sense of life as the rest of the station, so soft it’s hardly noticeable in the day, just a gentle undertone. Skating on the edge of sleep, mind drifting in and out of dreams, he finds himself sketching spectres in the moonlight. He fills the empty floor with pale shades – men in the outer office in mufti and uniform working at desks, some occasionally drifting in and out of this room, all silent and insubstantial. 

Morse lies still and watches them – they are working on the case, he knows, and there are clues to be found, if only he could see them. His mind paints in Inspector Thursday, smoking his pipe as he slips into the CID office. The thick smell of his tobacco lingers here even now, stronger than the cleaning products, stronger than the sachets of mead wort and rosebay willowherb doubtless deposited behind most of the furniture in the room. The inspector stares at the glass wall for a moment, covered with the pictures and notes from the crime scene and its five victims, then turns and enters his office, passing right through the door. He moves slowly over to his desk and examines the papers on it, smoking his pipe thoughtfully. 

Morse looks back to the outer office – the men there are wearing academic robes, and the wall they’ve constructed is a complex interplay of chalk and photography, built on a blackboard. They’ve just started a new section, have taped up the name for a 6th victim: Morse. He blinks, staring, as they begin taping up new photographs. Not pictures of him, Morse, but ones like all the five – a burned body, unrecognisable – 

Inspector Thursday appears suddenly in front of him, stepping between him and the outer office, blocking his view. Morse startles, gasping. “Sir – what are they doing – what – ” 

Thursday reaches and runs a finger along the side of Morse’s neck; where he touches, it burns.

“Sun-touched,” he says, raising his eyebrows pointedly. He takes the pipe from his mouth and knocks the red-hot ashes out over Morse’s chest.

Morse wakes with a cry, sitting up so sharply he nearly falls off the sofa. He looks around him and finds the space empty, no Thursday, no officers working. Looking through the window to the outer office he can’t even see the glass wall from here – it was all the dream. He sits back, rubbing at his neck and finds it sore, not just from the sofa. The pain is different – tighter, hotter, like a sunburn or a cut. Morse’s fingers slip down and he feels the compass’s chain against his skin, slipped loose from under his shirt collar. He pulls it up sharply with a snarl, tucking it back under the limp collar and pulling the sweater over it to act as an anchor. 

Morse sits there for a moment with his hand against his neck, pinning the cloth against his skin. Then slowly, reluctantly, he slips his hand beneath the hem of the sweater and trails his fingers across his chest until he feels the touch of smooth metal. 

His eyes snap open wide and he cringes, but holds his hand in place for several seconds before withdrawing it. He can feel the compass swinging gently as he does so, brushing against his shirt. 

It’s just as he remembered from the hospital, the first and last time he touched it: the thing is evil. It’s filled with the mania and malice of blood mages over the centuries, and the terror and desperation of their victims. The emotions are old, but no less horrible for their age. He finds himself wiping his hand unconsciously on his trousers, and forces himself to stop.

Morse closes his eyes, rubbing wearily at his face. Sleep has well and truly departed, and as tired as he is, he knows himself well enough to know he doesn’t have the patience to wait for it to return. Looking up he glances at his watch, the hands glinting silver in the moonlight: 4:20. He makes a noise of disgust, but gets up. 

Morse pads over to Inspector Thursday’s desk in his stocking feet, switching on the lamp and taking a seat. It only takes a few seconds of rummaging to find a pen and paper. 

After that, all that’s left is to remember.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although they used 3 different sets for the CID offices in each of the pilot and the two series, I've been including a few features from the series since we just have less to work off in the pilot. This probably would have been pertinent to note a few chapters ago, but I forgot.

When Thursday gets in the Jag the next morning, it’s with a sandwich in each pocket. “What’ve we got?” he asks, looking out into the dark morning. There’s no fog this morning; the sky cleared overnight, and a sharp frost has fallen. There’s ice on the road, yesterday’s puddles frozen over, and Lott’s face is set in a scowl as he navigates the narrow close. 

“We’ve got three potential matches on the bodies in the crypt, sir, based on the ages from the pathologist and the date Morse went missing. ‘Course, who knows when we may get dental identification – maybe never.”

“Did they have an Oxford connection?” asks Thursday, without elaborating.

Lott’s eyebrows wrinkles as he considers, car slipping to an uneven stop at an intersection. “At least one of them did, sir, now that you mention it. Something in the file about his being a recent graduate, as I recall. Nothing was said in the other two about it – we’d have to check.”

“Alright; do it. Then shift the search – narrow it down to anyone who went missing in the week before June 3rd; we know the bastard didn’t keep them long. Start pulling in files from the neighbouring counties, but only anyone with an Oxford connection – town or university. There can’t be many who meet all those, and fall in the age range.”

Lott glances at him from the side. “Probably not; that’s a narrow target, sir,” he says. “Do we have a source on that information?” 

Thursday returns the look with an inscrutable glance. “We’ll call it intuition for now, shall we? Check your three identified cases against the pattern, and bring me the files when you’ve done.” 

“Yes, sir.”

***

Morse is sitting in the guest’s chair at Thursday’s desk when Thursday arrives, which strikes Thursday as odd until he sees that Morse is reading the newspaper.

The lad stands as he enters; Thursday waves him down, taking off his coat and hat and beginning his daily fight with the poorly-balanced coat stand. “Manage alright here?” he asks, although the answer’s fairly obvious from the state of the lad: he looks as though he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. But then he’s in yesterday’s clothes and spent a night on a police-station sofa; there isn’t much space to criticise. Thursday makes a note to send him down to the lost-and-found to find a clean shirt, at least.

“Well enough, thank you, sir,” says Morse, lying politely. 

“Read that then, have you?” Thursday asks, glancing at the desk. There’s a cup of tea at least, he’s glad to see. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you. For keeping me out of it, I mean.” Morse glances down at the full-page spread, sweeping his hand over the black-and-white print. There are pictures, but only of the church and the corridor outside the crypt, both carefully stocked with uniformed officers at the time. The article focuses on the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the rite, the process for identifying the victims, and the prevalence of blood rites in Oxford generally. On the topic of a survivor, it is almost conspicuously silent. Thursday knows this because, apart from reading it over toast this morning, he practically dictated it to Dorothea Frazil over the phone last night, giving his home number for any follow-up questions. 

“Just doing my job,” says Thursday, affably. Or, more accurately, allowing the twin daggers of guilt and fear to do theirs.

Morse folds the paper up and puts it on the corner of the desk. Below it, there’s a piece of paper with some hand-written notes, which he hands to Thursday as the latter rounds his desk. It’s a list of names, about fifteen, nearly all men, many doctors. Several of the names towards the bottom of the list are asterisked, all of them laymen. Thursday seats himself and raises his eyebrows interrogatively, and Morse begins.

“The list. As I was brought back here from someone who knew me at Oxford, likely the same was true of them.”

Thursday nods almost unconsciously.

“Those are the people I knew when I was up who would have had the knowledge to perform such a rite – at least, who I think would, keeping in mind that this isn’t my area. The ones who I’ve marked with an asterisk are those who wouldn’t have had the knowledge when I knew them, but who intended to continue on to post-graduate education in rites and rituals; I don’t know whether they did or not. Frankly, though,” he adds with a kind of crisp clarity, “I think it more likely that the person we’re looking for is a don.”

“What makes you say that?” asks Thursday, watching the way the lad’s eyes run sharp as a blade over the list. Morse looks up, quick and confident. No fool, this lad. 

“The ages of the victims. They must all have been up at different times. Not hugely different, but the separation was enough that it couldn’t have been a student who knew them all – not unless he was also a resident of Oxford who stayed on in some capacity. Much easier for a don to have known them all. Or someone else employed in one of the colleges, of course, but I doubt they would have the knowledge necessary.”

“No, it’s not likely,” agrees Thursday. “This is very helpful. I’ll get onto Dr Porter and ask him to make up a similar list, restricted for now to colleagues. If anyone turns up on both lists, it’ll give us a place to start at least. I need to ask, Morse, given we’re trusting Porter as a consultant…”

Morse shakes his head immediately, certain. “I hadn’t met him before yesterday. And besides, I’d have known the moment we shook hands. It’s not him.”

Thursday leans back in his chair. “Well, that’s one we can strike off, then. At least we’re making some progress.” 

There’s a knock on the door; Thursday looks up as Lott enters, some files in his hands. “The possible matches on the victims, sir. Checked them for associations with Oxford – two of them had been up; these two.” He puts the files down on the desk. “We’re pulling in the files from the neighbouring counties now.”

“Right; thanks Arthur.”

Lott leaves, and Thursday opens the files and pulls out the pictures, turning them so Morse can see. “Look familiar? Theodore Estevan and John Barry. Estevan was 31, went missing from Bicester. Barry was 24, missing from Wantage.”

Morse takes the photos and examines them carefully, tilting them under the light, before shaking his head. “I don’t believe I knew either of them. Does it say what they read?”

Thursday flips through the files; like Morse’s they are thin, without leads, pages crisp and clean. One reported missing by his employer, the other by his landlady. Solitary men who disappeared, unmissed. Can it be a coincidence that all three had no one in their lives who they would tell where they were going, of a sudden trip to Oxford? Thursday can’t believe it is.

“No,” he says simply, not voicing his thoughts. 

“I can look into it for you if you like, sir,” offers Morse, plainly reading the files upside down as he hands back the pictures. “Phone round the colleges.”

Thursday takes the photos with a careful hand, slotting them back into place; his silence causes Morse to look up, and Thursday gives him a gentle smile. “I appreciate the offer, Morse, but you can’t take on casework.”

“But last night –” begins Morse, looking like he’s been slapped.

“Last night I asked you to give a specialist opinion on a crime scene you had already been to. That’s one thing; bringing you on for casework is another entirely.”

Morse makes a choking noise in his throat. “I don’t believe this – you used me –”

Thursday leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, looking Morse in the eye and speaking plainly. “As a victim, you’re automatically ineligible to participate in this investigation; as someone whose been missing for 18 months, you’ve also surrendered your position as a constable, temporarily at least. I’m sorry, but those are the facts.”

For a minute, Morse just stares at him, shocked. Then he shakes his head, standing stiffly. “Fine. I’ll be outside.” He marches out, all indignant anger. Thursday sighs and closes his eyes, rubbing at his forehead. The door opens again.

“Look, Morse,” he begins.

“Me again, guv’nor,” interrupts Lott, sidling in. Thursday opens his eyes and looks up. “We’ve got trouble. New missing persons case just come in. Alexander Butler-Smythe, 23. Attended Oxford – Beauford. Reported missing from Kidlington this morning, last seen yesterday afternoon. Thought you’d want to know.”

Thursday drops the file he’s holding, thoughts rapidly shifting gears. “Put the word out both with our boys and to County – any new missing persons cases between the ages of 18 and 40 should be checked for a connection to Oxford immediately. If they have one, pass it on to us. It’s too early to start panicking, but pass Butler-Smythe’s picture out to patrols to be circulated to the station and buses and follow the usual lines of inquiry. For now, keep trying to identify the original victims. If we can match up a few of them, hopefully we can find the common connection.”

“Might be looking at a lot of man power here, sir,” points out Lott. He’s not wrong; if they are at the beginning of six new kidnappings – God forbid – plus the existing five they already have, Cowley CID can’t possibly handle the workload.

“I’ll talk to Crisp; we’ll call in extra men on attachment from Witney if need be – if there turns out to be something in this. Keep me posted.” 

“Right.” Lott sidles out again.

Thursday clears off a corner of his desk, finds his notebook, then finds the phone directory in his drawer. The first number gets him King’s; the second gets him Porter’s extension. 

“Dr Porter? This is DI Thursday.”

“Oh, inspector. Good morning,” says Porter, cheerily.

“Good morning. I have a request.”

“Oh?”

“We are beginning to look at individuals who may have been known to multiple victims; they’re the ones who are more likely to be suspects. What we don’t know is which of those people have the skill necessary to perform the rite. It would be extremely helpful if you could make a list of people known to you in permanent positions at Oxford who would fit that description.”

There’s a long pause from the other end of the phone; Thursday traces his thumb back and forth over the handle, waiting.

“The people you are speaking of are my colleagues, inspector. Many of them are my friends,” comes the professor’s answer eventually, in a cold tone.

Thursday closes his eyes. “We have strong reason to believe that one of them murdered five people, doctor; would have murdered six, if something hadn’t gone wrong.”

“What reason?” asks Porter, in a calm voice.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, doctor, but you can take my word that we are making a thorough investigation; we do not act hastily, or without compelling evidence.”

Another long pause. Then: “Very well. I will make a list.”

“It’s urgent, doctor. Quite urgent, in fact. Could you have it by noon?”

This time Porter doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” says Thursday, preparing to ring off, and is surprised to be interrupted.

“Oddly enough, inspector, I had been planning on calling you this morning. I have some news,” says Porter, in a slightly stilted tone.

Thursday looks up. “You’ve identified the rite?” he asks, hopefully.

“No, I’m afraid not yet. The array was much damaged by time, as well as the melted wax and the police team. No, I was referring to the compass. You remember I told you I thought it was of continental workmanship – Swiss or German? I described it to a fellow authority here in college, and he was reminded of a bequest made to Keble some years ago. A set of 12 matching compasses from Prussia bequeathed to the college in the late 18th century. They were kept on display with other ritualistic paraphernalia until the war, when it was felt with the threat of bombing and the generally heightened security risk they would be safer in storage. Where, supposedly, they remain to this day.”

Thursday taps his pen against his notebook. “Twelve – that would be enough to conduct the whole rite over again.”

“It would…” begins Porter, cautiously.

“Why do I sense a contradiction coming, doctor?” asks Thursday.

“We will need to wait until Keble can produce the items from storage, inspector, or of course the catalogue if it turns out that it was they which were used; however my colleague also thought that he remembered one other thing about the set. One of the twelve compasses had been broken, sometime in the late 19th century. There were only eleven intact.”

***

There’s a rhythm the CID, like any department, falls into when it gets truly busy, when everyone is working non-stop. They’ve reached the point now that they have enough grist for the mill to run, enough points to start puzzling out connections. In the outer office, the men are sorting through the missing persons cases, working back over the Oxford connections and looking for similarities. Lott’s coordinating the search for Butler-Smythe, liaising with County. Thursday meets with Crisp, bringing him up to speed on yesterday’s events.

Morse sits quietly in the corner, watching the information on the glass partition be built up with sharp eyes.

***

Until they can get dental records, they have no way to match files to bodies, but they have three records which are looking solid. Thursday watches as they post the names on the partition – Estevan, graduate of Lonsdale, Barry, graduate of Bailey, and Stuart Fresno, graduate of Keble. It’s gone one o’clock and Thursday’s stomach is beginning to inch up his spine, but he stays where he is until they finish adding Fresno’s details. They’re just taping up the last of his papers when Lott appears, arms crossed.

“There’s been another one, sir. Girl reported missing an hour ago, over Witney way. Lady Matilda’s graduate. Rebecca Gardner. Last seen last night leaving work.”

“Damn. Alright.” Thursday takes a breath, then another and looks around. Most of the men are already watching, but some are still at their desks typing, smoking, reading files. He steps back into the centre of the room, and raises his voice.

“Listen here. As of now, all this stops. We’ve had two new missing persons reported overnight, both with connections to Oxford. Until we know otherwise, we have to assume the blood mage is trying again. He knows we’re after him, so if we’re lucky he may get sloppy. He needs six victims to complete the rite – he has two that we know of. Right now, our priority is finding the current victims. Set all this aside,” he points at the partition, “and focus on the two new missing person’s cases. I’ll be calling in reinforcements from Witney, on the assumption that we will be seeing more disappearances. For now, work within your regular units. Lott, you lead Butler-Smythe; McNutt, Gardner.” 

There’s a moment of silence, and then the men break apart, moving quickly to begin their new tasks. 

Thursday strides back to stand beside Morse, who’s watching as the men pull down the information on the victims off the partition. “We won’t give up on them,” says Thursday, turning to follow Morse’s gaze. “Once we catch the bastard responsible, we’ll wring their names out of him.”

Morse shakes his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s not that.” He keeps staring at the photos of the probable victims. “They all knew the secret – if I’d only looked up at the right moment, we wouldn’t be in this whole mess. If the girl had lived instead of me, you would already have stopped the mage, there would be no lives in danger now.”

“I already told you, Morse, there’s no point in – wait, what did you say?” demands Thursday, turning sharply towards him. Morse looks up, frowning in confusion.

“That if she had lived, you would already have arrested him?” he repeats, questioningly. 

“Damn. _Damn._ ”

“Inspector?”

Thursday sighs. “I had hoped, by keeping your identity out of the paper, we would keep the blood mage guessing as to which of the victims survived. But he must know it’s you – if it had been her, as you point out, she would have named him, we would have already arrested him.” 

“Yes,” agrees Morse, matter-of-factly. Thursday looks down at him.

“You already knew?”

“Well, yes, sir,” says Morse, giving him a look that suggests he considered it somewhat obvious; Thursday wonders when he figured it out – last night, or this morning. 

“But your concern about the paper –”

The lad actually blushes, cheeks reddening and ears turning a rather shocking cerise. “I suppose it’s vanity, sir, but I’ve no wish to have my life paraded through the papers for the entertainment of the masses. Especially when they could never – understand.” He looks away, lip curling.

“No, they couldn’t,” Thursday agrees, steadily. “As far as I’m concerned it’s your name and your choice, and if we can keep it out, we will.” He watches Morse twisting himself into knots, disgusted and ashamed of his disgust, and wonders again how a lad like this ever ended up in the Force. And whether they’ll be able to keep him. 

Thursday glances at the clock on the wall; 1:30, as his stomach has been reminding him. 

“Hungry?” He inclines his head towards his office; Morse glances up. “Mrs Thursday did you a sandwich for lunch.”

The constable looks at him quizzically. “Sir?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“I… suppose so, sir.” 

He stands, and follows Thursday into his office.

***

They’re just finishing when a clerk brings up an envelope – it’s hand addressed, no stamp. “A young bloke brought it from one of the colleges, sir. A student of Dr Porter’s, he said.”

Thursday dismisses him with the nod, and starts slitting it open. “I spoke to Porter earlier, asked him to make a list like yours. This, presumably, is it.” He finishes opening the envelope and finds inside it one single hand-written piece of paper. There’s a short prelude – Porter’s explanatory note – and then a list of about forty names.

Morse glances at it, then back at him. “Sir, I could,” he begins, and pauses, seeing Thursday raise his eyebrows warningly. He continues, more slowly. “I could take a look at the list, since it’s possible that I might have forgotten someone when making mine,” he finishes, tone carefully deferential. 

“Don’t give up, do you?” he says, wryly. Morse gives him his shy little smile.

Slowly, eyes still on Morse, Thursday turns the paper around so that the constable can see it. Morse picks a pen up from the desk, clicking it open, and immediately starts reading. Behind him, Lott appears in the doorway, looking grim. 

“I’ll be right back,” says Thursday, moving around the desk. Morse doesn’t answer, eyes following the pen down the page. He’s already marked one of the names, Thursday sees.

“What?” he asks, stepping into the outer office. 

“We’ve just had a call from Lonsdale. Two students gone missing from the campus. Didn’t show up for their morning lectures. Friends got worried and reported it.” 

“Christ.” Thursday pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Sir –” says Morse quietly, from behind him.

“Not now.” Thursday looks to the central table, holding a map of the university. “Alright, where were they last seen? Arthur?”

Lott is staring past him with an odd expression. Thursday turns in time to see Morse fall across Lott’s desk, catching himself with his forearm, the movement pushing a wire basket full of files over the edge to spill all over the floor. He looks up, panting hard, and reaches with a shaking hand to pull the silver chain from his sweater. The compass falls free and hangs, swinging; Thursday stares at it, horror rising. The concentric rings are spinning rapidly under their own momentum, fast and furious.


	7. Chapter 7

Although it feels like he stands motionless for at least a minute, Thursday knows it can be scarcely longer than a second. Then he’s striding across the suddenly silent CID office towards Morse. The lad’s barely managing to hold himself up on the desk, face grey, eyes sliding in and out of focus as he stares at Thursday, terrified. 

Thursday looks around as he stops beside Morse, pinning the first man he sees under his glare. “Burrows, lend a hand. Arthur, call Porter – get him down here, now.” 

Thursday grabs Morse’s arm, hauling it over his shoulder; on his other side Burrows follows suit, and between them they haul the constable out of the CID office. He’s staggering between them, practically a drunken stumble that deteriorates as they descend the stairs and hurry through the building. By the time they make it to the cell block they’re mostly dragging him, his head hanging low over his chest, compass still spinning malevolently. He’s muttering to himself, but if there’s any sense to his words Thursday can’t make them out.

They carry him the last stretch of the way down the staircase with the help of the duty sergeant, Thursday switching on the lights and wrenching open the iron door once they reach the basement floor. 

The effect of crossing the iron threshold on Morse is dramatic, like a fish returned to water. His breathing deepens and steadies, the thready pulse under Thursday’s fingers finding its rhythm and strengthening. They lay him down on the floor, the sergeant starting the lamps while Thursday loosens Morse’s collar. He’s stirring already, feet scrabbling against the smooth concrete. 

By the light of the soft green glow filling the room, Thursday can see the compass lying on the floor a few inches from Morse’s chest. The speed of its rotation has slowed considerably, but not stopped – the rings continue to spin evenly, deliberately, completely independent of any external force. He feels his chest growing tighter, and forces himself to breathe. Burrows and the sergeant are still in the room, waiting now, and he turns to them.

“Alright you two – that’ll do. No need to mention anything about this to anyone.” He watches the men leave, eyes on them rather than the lad on the floor, then heaves the door closed. 

There’s a soft rustle of cloth from behind him. “Sir? What’s happening?” 

Thursday turns to see Morse sitting up, legs awkwardly half-crossed under him, looking wide-eyed around the safe room.

“Morse,” begins Thursday, raising his hands reassuringly. Morse shifts and the compass falls free from a fold in his sweater, catching the light. He looks down and stares, freezing. “Morse –”

The lad gets to his feet in one sharp movement, stepping back as he does so and hitting the wall hard. He doesn’t seem to notice; he’s staring down at the compass. “What’s happening? What –”

“Porter’s on his way; we’ll get this sorted,” says Thursday, calmly. “Why don’t you just –”

Morse’s head snaps up, eyes fixed and fever-bright. “DS Lott was talking just now about more kidnappings. How many does that make?” 

“Look, let’s wait until Porter arrives and we get you right, then –”

“How many?” repeats Morse, pleading, desperate. “ _Please._ ” 

“Four – that we know of,” says Thursday, carefully. 

Morse draws his arms tighter around himself, looking ill. “But you think it’s five. It’s five – and that I’m six. That just now –” he looks up towards the CID office, paling. 

Thursday crosses the space between them and looks Morse straight in the eye, keeping his posture open and his voice practical. “We don’t know that. Calm down. I’ve never heard of a rite completed where the sacrifices weren’t present. Just keep calm – we’ll stay here and wait for Dr Porter.”

Morse watches him, arms still crossed tightly, his only movement the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes. “How long will that take?” 

“Minutes – we’ll fetch him in a car, if we have to. Why?”

The lad gives a stiff shake of his head. “You were right, sir. You were right – he’s trying again – and he might succeed this time.” His legs start to shake and he sits abruptly, sliding down against the wall. 

“You don’t know that,” says Thursday, sharply. Morse looks up at him, tilting his head back, and Thursday can see the way his breath is catching in his throat, the sweat on his face and neck. 

He doesn’t let the dismay show on his face, locks it away deep under the mask of practicality the war left him as second nature. “We won’t let it go through – Porter will stop it.”

Morse rests his head back against the wall, eyes slipping closed. “He couldn’t before. Maybe it was always going to end like this. Maybe I never really woke up.” 

“You can stow that right now, constable,” snaps Thursday. “I was led to believe you weren’t a quitter; now’s damn well not the time to start.”

Morse blinks and stares at him, surprised and chastised, and Thursday nods curtly. “Alright. Now, when we were in my office, I saw you mark off at least one name that matched up between your list and Porter’s. Is that all there was?” 

There’s a pause as Morse collects his thoughts. “No – there were three. Lescault, Knight, Sutherland,” he says, rubbing at his forehead. “I knew Lescault through Lonsdale; I took a course with Southerland, and Knight was a don of Susan’s.” 

“Alright, so which –” He’s interrupted by a heavy hammering on the door. 

It’s Porter, Gladstone bag in hand, with Lott lurking behind. Thursday steps aside to let the professor in, drawing Lott aside with a wave. “Get up to my office. On the desk there’s a list of names, Oxford dons. Three should be marked – Lescault, Knight, Sutherland. They’re our main suspects; you take who you need and search their rooms, homes, offices. Dig them out and sit on them. If you can’t find one, he’s probably our man so damn well keep looking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Lott?”

Lott turns back. “Guv’nor?”

“If you can’t find one of them, try the catacombs.” 

Thursday shuts the door before he can see the reaction on his sergeant’s face; he has neither the time nor the interest. 

Inside the safe room, Porter has opened his bag and is laying out boxes and phials calmly but quickly. Morse is watching with hooded eyes, head resting against the wall. His hands have dropped down onto his thighs, legs sprawled out bonelessly in front of him. 

“The damn thing started spinning about a quarter of an hour ago, and he collapsed,” says Thursday, watching Porter. “We brought him down here, but…” There’s no need to finish; the compass is still spinning, drawing death inexorably closer. 

The professor nods without looking up, now unstopping bottles and mixing together portions of powders in a glass beaker. It’s an odd mix of mysticism and science, but then the colleges have always pushed modernity; it attracts more funding than dust-lined cloaks and grimy cauldrons. “You did right. The room is a decent one, if rather make-shift. It’s slowed the reaction, but not stopped it. I told you, inspector, it’s old magic, very strong, and the mage has gone out of his way to find first-class materials.”

“Then he is trying to complete the rite?” asks Thursday; out of the corner of his eye he sees Morse straighten. 

Porter nods, attention on his materials.

“Can he? With Morse here?”

Porter finally stops, putting down the glass bottles with quiet clinks and looking up at Thursday with a grim face. “Yes, inspector, he can. It wouldn’t be easy, but he has shown himself to be a man of education, skill and resource – I don’t suppose it would slow him up for long.” 

Thursday glances at Morse, watching silently, then at the carefully organized contents of Porter’s bag. “Can you stop him?”

“I will do my best, inspector; I believe that’s all we may hope for,” says Porter, rather sententiously. It sounds to Thursday’s ears like a death sentence. 

He moves over to stand beside Morse, glancing down at the compass spinning in the phosphorous-light, glinting green as it turns. “What if you knew who did it? Or who might’ve – we’ve narrowed it down to three suspects: Lescault, Knight, and Sutherland.”

Porter frowns. “What makes you think – ”

Thursday cuts him off before he has the chance to become offended. “We don’t have time to explain at the moment, professor – does it help?”

The professor shrugs. “Not hugely, no. They specialise in different schools, different traditions, and the variations in form and technique are considerable.”

“Lescault,” whispers Morse, throat dry. Thursday looks down to see him holding the compass for the first time, fingers wrapping carefully around the spinning silver rings. His eyes are narrowed in a mixture of concentration and disgust. He drops it after a moment, clenching his fist. His hand is shaking.

“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place, you bloody fool,” demands Thursday angrily, kneeling down. Morse shakes his head slightly, looking at him out of the corner of his eye rather than turning. 

“It’s not like that. It’s full of evil… centuries of rage and hate and malice. The chain too, it seeped in there… like barbed wire. But even so… the mage held it, examined it, chose it … it mattered, was the most important component of the rite – correct?” his eyes slant to Porter, who nods. He takes a moment to catch his breath, swallowing thickly. “There should be something of him here… he should have left a trace, a hint of himself… no one else has held them in nearly two years, at least. But there’s nothing of him. Nothing new at all – empty. And that was Lescault… cold, empty, almost dead inside.” 

Thursday looks from it to Morse. “That’s all? Maybe he wore gloves, maybe he didn’t handle them much. It’s a bit thin.”

“Sorry, sir. There’s nothing else.” Morse’s eyes slide closed again and he slumps sideways; Thursday grabs his shoulders, holding him up.

“Morse?”

“Haven’t quit yet, sir,” mutters the constable without opening his eyes.

Thursday sighs, and lowers him to lie on his side. “Doctor Porter? What do we do?”

“Take off his shirt, and move him to the centre of the room. Be careful not to disturb the compass, of course.”

Thursday nods grimly and does as he’s told; to the side, Porter is adding the mixtures he’s prepared into a large beaker of what is clearly blood. When he’s done, the professor produces an ivory-shafted brush from his bag, its bristles made of short, coarse fur, and dips it in the beaker. 

“Try not to move, please,” is all he says before he begins painting long, flowing lines on Morse’s torso. Morse flinches at the first contact but then lies still, his breathing now alarmingly slow. The compass’s chain is still looped over his neck, the pendant lying on the floor beside his shoulder. 

“The other five… what will happen?” asks Morse, eyes sliding open a sliver. 

Porter doesn’t pause, keeps filling in the elaborate pattern he’s constructing. His movements are if anything quicker and smoother than yesterday, despite the pressure; he knows his craft, Thursday will give him that. “If this is successful, the reaction will be robbed of one of its power sources – a kind of amputation, in a way. That will shut the rest of it down immediately, and no harm will come to them; the power will not be there to cause it.”

Morse’s tongue darts over his dry lips. “And if it isn’t successful?” 

Porter pauses, glancing at him. “Then we may cause another event similar to the one which occurred previously; the reaction will feed back and go critical. However, if we do nothing, all six of you will die; you can’t count on luck this time.” He finishes his work with a long sweep of the brush down Morse’s sternum; Morse shivers.

“Is there anything you can do … to stop the reaction feeding back?”

“We don’t have the time –” 

“Can you?” repeats Morse through his teeth.

Porter sighs, setting the brush back carefully in its beaker. “I can’t stop it, but I can reduce the shock of the feedback; that would give him more time to shut down the reaction on his side, increase the chance of saving them.”

“Do it.”

Porter looks to Thursday, who nods. He stands, grabbing his chalk from his bag, and begins again, this time sketching on the floor around Morse. 

The lad’s breathing evens out, his eyes closed now. His lips move occasionally, but Thursday can’t make out the words; he’s hardly even whispering. “Morse? I can’t hear you.” Morse twitches, but doesn’t answer.

“I don’t think he’s speaking to you, inspector.” Porter sweeps around Morse’s feet, diagram taking its dizzying shape as the chalk scrapes along the cement. 

“Is this going to work?” asks Thursday, stepping back to let him work.

“Frankly? I would say it’s about a one in ten chance,” replies Porter honestly, dropping to his knee to fill in some details. “With no true certainty regarding the blood mage, or his choice of technique, we are trusting in luck as much as anything else…” he trails off as he reaches to add in an elaborate pattern of lines and hatching near Morse’s ankle. 

Thursday is a detective inspector with a wife and children; before that he was a NCO who survived three years in North Africa and a further two in Italy. He is an expert at compartmentalising, packing up his life into neat and utterly separate little boxes and keeping it that way lest the walls break and the things he loves become tainted by the horrors he’s seen, felt, dealt out with his own hands. 

As he looks down at Morse, lying pale and delirious, he realises in this moment that very shortly the lad is going to die here in this room, or rather he finally allows himself to know it. One new, thin wall gives way, Morse’s words in his ears, _sun-touched: death by fire._ And for a moment, his heart rebels. 

“No. There has to be something else you can do, some other way. This –” 

Isn’t fair? Isn’t right? His own naïveté snaps him out of his rant, a bitter taste in his mouth, his throat full of broken glass. He wipes a hand over his eyes. “There isn’t, is there?”

“I’m sorry. No,” says Porter, sounding genuinely remorseful. And then, “I’m finished.”

Thursday kneels down beside the lad, still occasionally mouthing words. “Morse? Morse?” 

Porter mirrors his action on Morse’s other side. “We’re running out of time; we’ve wasted too much already. His heart _will_ stop.”

Thursday looks across at Porter sharply. “If you think we’re taking that thing off while he’s still awake, professor –” his voice fails him, probably just as well. He reaches out and shakes Morse’s shoulder, the cuff of his sleeve over his palm, careful not to touch the painted lines. 

Morse sighs, softly, “Sir?” 

“You’re going to be alright, lad. You’ll be alright.” It’s a lie he’s told dozens of young men, men with days, hours, minutes left to live. The words come easily, spilled off by rote without thought or effort. 

In any other situation Thursday would order the lad to stay awake, would press his shoulder, hold his hand, do something to let him know he’s not alone on the brink of death. But he won’t send Morse into the horror that awaits awake, and the last thing the lad needs is to feel Thursday’s distress and rage. “Just go to sleep. Just – go to sleep,” he says gruffly, hands fisted in the material of his trousers. 

Morse’s eyelashes flutter and his head rolls gently to the side, too worn out to fight. Porter reaches out, and Thursday catches his wrist in a tight grip. “I’ll do it.”

Porter gives him a compassionate look. “Are you sure?”

Thursday doesn’t return the glance. “Yes.” 

He reaches out carefully, pulling the chain loose so that it can be slipped easily over Morse’s head; Morse doesn’t react, chest barely rising and falling. He’s truly unconscious now, not far from death. 

“Pull it free and move quickly,” advises Porter, moving to the far corner of the room himself and removing his coat. Thursday remains, kneeling, staring down at Morse’s unconscious face, at the life he’s almost certainly about to end. There’s nothing that can be said, but nothing’s not enough, not by a long shot. “We’ll find the other victims – all of them. And we’ll move Heaven and Earth to catch the bastard who did this,” he promises. He can’t help but wonder though, even as he says it, whether it’s Morse he’s promising – or himself.

“Inspector Thursday!” hisses Porter.

Thursday closes his eyes, tenses, and moves without thought. He throws himself across the room, pulling the compass with him as he goes. 

From behind him, there is only silence. 

Thursday opens his eyes slowly and turns, dropping the hateful necklace; it lands with a metallic slither on the concrete. 

Morse is lying, whole and unblemished, in the centre of the chalk circle. Thursday staggers against the wall, legs suddenly weak; beside him Porter appears and slaps him on the back. “Well done, sir! Well done indeed! My God I didn’t think we’d do it.” 

Thursday returns his enthusiastic smile with a tired but genuine smile of his own. “The credit goes to you, professor.” He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his forehead. “Thank you. We owe you Constable Morse’s life.”

Porter makes a self-effacing remark in reply, and goes to open the door. 

Thursday tucks his kerchief away as he crosses the room, dropping down beside Morse to check his pulse. It’s slow but growing stronger already, his breathing steadying and deepening with it. As Porter opens the door and the basement’s electric light seeps in, it shows Morse’s skin to be a sickly grey, lips tinged slightly blue, but here too as Thursday watches he can see improvement; the colour returning as Morse’s heartbeat strengthens.

Thursday sits down carefully beside Morse, pulling out his pipe and tobacco pouch; he shifts awkwardly a few times as he packs his pipe, suddenly aware of the sweat pricking at his back and under his collar. Beside him, Porter starts loading his materials back into his bag. 

It’s a couple of minutes before Morse’s breathing catches with his return to consciousness and his eyes slide open blearily. He blinks up at the ceiling for a moment before turning to stare at Thursday, eyes shifting out of focus before finding it. Thursday holds out his hand, face straight as he draws on the pipe. Morse takes it with a look of confusion. 

There’s something intensely heartwarming in seeing his own relief and joy spread to Morse – it paints itself across the lad’s face: a deep, shocked smile that anchors itself in his eyes, and Thursday loses his straight face and grins in return. He pulls Morse up slowly, alert for signs of dizziness.

“Welcome back, constable.”

Morse runs his free hand across his unadorned neck, and some of the shock fades to be replaced by his smaller, familiar shy smile. “Thank you, sir. It’s good to see you again.”

TO BE CONCLUDED


	8. EPILOGUE

Thursday brings three constables, a revolver, and a hefty iron knife to search Lescault’s house; there’s no telling with men mad enough to raise the dead. 

They find a locked room in the basement, kept in meticulously order. Most of it is full of occult paraphernalia; a cabinet holding small boxes and beakers and phials, large wooden crates containing bulkier items, a table with careful notes detailing the construction and completion of the rite. One corner, however, has been dedicated to another collection entirely. A smaller desk holds a hand-crafted wooden file-box with six compartments; there are several thin manila files in each of them. The tabs have been colour-coded; five red, the rest green or blue. One sole file lies open on the desk, as if left there in a hurry. 

Thursday glances down at it as the men around him poke and pry through the boxes and bottles. The first sheet is typewritten, short and concise. “Mr E Morse, Greats, Lonsdale, 1955-1958. Tutor: Dr R Devlin. Notes: Thrown over by girl (Susan, St Anne’s) in third year, failed degree.” There are several short subsequent pages, handwritten this time, each an update on Morse’s address or profession. The last is Carshall, 1961. The tab on the folder, Thursday notes as he closes it, is red.

He pulls out the other five red files and finds similar summaries, although with each of these there are photographs, missing from Morse’s file. Three of the names, he sees, are familiar: Theodore Estevan, John Barry, and Stuart Fresno. The other two are Suzanne Hill, graduate of Lady Matilda’s, living in London, and Melissa Stuart, former girlfriend of one of Lescault’s students. 

A set of heavy footsteps announces a newcomer, and Thursday turns to see Lott arrive, smoking a cigarette and looking dour. He raises his eyebrows as he glances around the room, and drifts over to Thursday. “Heard the lad made it. That’s a bit of alright for him, then.”

Thursday represses the urge to make a fatuous reply. “What’ve you got?”

“Not much, sir. We’d been canvassing for all three until the call came through just now. All I could find out about Lescault is that he’s quiet, aloof, keeps himself to himself, and is organized about timetables and money. I got that off the department secretary.”

“Seems true enough. He kept a filing system of unattached unsocial former students – there are about twenty names there. He kept tabs on them, new addresses, jobs. He’s been planning this for a long time.” He indicates the box of files. “Red are the original sacrifices. Not sure about green and blue. There’ll be time to sort that out later.” A lifetime of it for Dr Lescault, in the tiniest cell Thursday can find.

“Sir?” It’s Burrows, at the other table. Thursday and Lott turn, and he holds up a thin notebook. “There are some notes here about building access, sir. Back and side door use, security patrols. Sounds like a warehouse, perhaps? Something industrial.” Burrows flips through the pages quickly, scanning them. 

“It could hardly be in a warehouse, unless he’s renting space – unlikely given his intentions,” says Thursday. 

“No, it doesn’t read like that, sir. I think he’s getting in around the building’s proper owners.”

Lott picks up some of the other pages of diagrams and leafs through them, pages detailing the arrays and diagrams to be created on the floor. “He’d need space – a good ten yards square, I should –”

“Got it!” exclaims Burrows, excitedly, adding, “Sorry, sir,” in parenthesis. “He’s put the address in at the beginning here with some notes on vehicle access. It’s in Cowley.”

Thursday nods. “Nixon, call for forensics and wait here. Everyone else comes.”

***

The warehouse is a perfectly ordinary storehouse for the Oxford University Press, smelling of cardboard, paper and bookbinder’s glue. The security guard who lets them in informs them that it holds secondary stock, kept for when the primary stock on campus runs low, and is rarely accessed.

In the basement here too they find a locked room, for which the guard has no key. “Break it down,” orders Thursday, and stands back to let the two constables they’ve brought along take over. 

There’s no light from inside, but as soon as the door splinters open the scent of candles and an acidic incense wafts out. Lott reaches around the corner of the door and finds the light switch, all four of them waiting tensely to see what will be revealed. 

The overhead lights turn on with an electric hum, pouring down harsh white light onto the smooth floor. The constable in front of Thursday takes a step back into him, hissing under his breath. 

The square floor of the room has been turned into a complex circle, drawn out in chalk and red wax. Melted candle stubs and burnt-out braziers stand at even points along the curve. In the centre of the circle stands a quite ordinary brown wooden table, holding a silver plate containing a few pieces of what looks like bone. 

Much more important, though, are the five bodies lying on the floor, each evenly spaced from the other. Where the sixth would have been a blank circle has been sketched, and a large silver bowl placed in the centre. 

Thursday pushes the constable in front of him out of the way and hurries to the closest of the bodies, a young man still in his college robes. A silver compass identical to Morse’s lies on his chest, rings still. Thursday reaches out and places his fingers on the lad’s neck, and sighs. The skin is warm, heartbeat slow but steady. 

He looks up and sees the others checking the rest of the victims with similar expressions of relief. Thursday glances to the PC nearest him. “Fletcher, go call for a doctor and a couple of ambulances. They’re probably just knocked out, but we’ll need to check.”

“Sir.” Burrows is standing by the sixth, empty circle. Thursday rises to join him. The silver bowl set in its centre is full of blood, the bowl’s smooth rim painted with an elaborate pattern in black ink. Half-submerged in the red liquid is a photograph of Morse, wearing robes and looking at a point to the right of the camera with an open, guileless expression, clearly unaware of the photographer.

“Bastard deserves to swing,” says Thursday, looking from the picture to the men and women around him, some of them still just undergrads. 

“Odd you should mention that, sir,” comes Lott’s voice, slightly muffled. Thursday glances around and notices a second door. 

It leads into a smaller room, holding a table, a bottle of chloroform, some rope, and the body of a thin, middle aged man hanging from the ceiling. 

Thursday stares at the corpse for a moment, then turns and walks out.

***

It’s late when he gets back to the office to return the revolver to the firearms locker; the lights in the CID are off, everyone either still out at the crime scene, or gone home. Thursday looks into his office to find it dark as well; he frowns, surprised. Morse can doubtless take care of himself, but nevertheless the lad has no money and has effectively fallen off the Earth for eighteen months – jumping back into the world again alone may be extreme.

Thursday turns on the light in his office to check for messages. Sure enough, there’s a single piece of white paper folded in half sitting on his blotter. It’s a note written in a tight, careful hand.  
_  
Inspector Thursday,_

_Dr Porter has offered to put me up for the night. I hope you will understand if I decline to spend another night on your sofa, generous though the offer is. I heard before leaving the station that you located the blood rite, and the victims are safe. Congratulations._

_I have some personal matters to put in order tomorrow morning, but will return to the station by 10:00; if this is not satisfactory, Dr Porter has provided his home number – OTM 4983._

_Respectfully yours,_

_E Morse (DC)_

Thursday reads the letter through twice before setting it aside carefully. Then he stands, retrieves his hat, and goes home.

***

It isn’t in fact until the afternoon of the next day that Thursday meets Morse, having returned from meetings at the college and the hospital.

He almost doesn’t recognize the lad when he walks through the office door, pausing to knock quietly on the frame. Thursday’s grown used to seeing Morse in overlarge ancient clothes, his hair a mess and a couple of days’ stubble on his chin. Today he’s wearing a dark suit – admittedly cheap and badly tailored, but the young and slim can carry that off – and has both run a brush through his hair and shaved. It makes no difference to the self-assuredness in his eyes, but it has improved his overall appearance immensely. He truly looks like a respectable detective constable now, and moves with the proper confidence of one as well.

“Dry cleaner’s came through, I see,” says Thursday, gesturing for him to come in and shut the door.

“Yes, sir.” Morse takes a seat. He pauses for a moment, as if gauging Thursday’s interest, then goes on, “I’m sorry not to have been in right away, but I phoned through to my father last night; he wired me some money this morning.” He pulls some coins from his pocket and puts them on the desk. Thursday stares at them blankly for a moment, then remembers the canteen dinner and waves them away.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you keep that – that’s what they give me expenses for.” It isn’t, and he won’t claim it, but he doesn’t know the lad well enough to know whether he would keep the money otherwise. Morse certainly wasn’t behind the door when they were handing out stubbornness. “Has your family kept any of your things?” 

Morse’s face lights up with genuine joy for a moment, before he pulls it back into a more sedate expression. “My sister made them keep my records,” he says in a quiet, pleased tone. Thursday nods; at least he saved something he cared for from this whole tragedy. He refrains from inquiring whether this was the first time Morse contacted them; it’s none of his business how the lad conducts his family affairs, but he has the strong suspicion that it was. 

“Good. I have some news for you – about the case. It’s not strictly by the books, but there you are. Do you want to know?”

Morse straightens, expression becoming serious. “About Lescault?”

“Yes.”

He nods, blue eyes hard. 

“You know that we found the blood rite yesterday, and that the victims are alright?” Thursday waits for Morse’s nod, then goes on. “What we’ve kept under wraps so far is that Lescault is dead. He hanged himself when the rite failed the second time – he must have known what happened, and that we were onto him.”

Morse sits very still for a moment, the only movement the rise and fall of his shoulders. Then the façade cracks, just a little but all at once; he swallows, blinks, raises a hand to push his hair from his face. “He’s dead? Just – just like that?”

Thursday nods. “Yes. Did you want to see him? Confront him?” he asks, watching Morse. The lad is slowly curling inwards, fingers twisting in his hair, chin resting against his palm. 

He looks up crookedly at Thursday and shakes his head slowly. “No – I … no. I don’t know. I just… I don’t know.” He shakes his head again, brows furrowed, looking lost.

“It’s a lot to process, I know. And what you think of it’s your affair. But like as not, this is the best outcome. There won’t be a trial now, which means you won’t have to stay here and testify, and incidentally means no media circus.”

“I suppose so.” Morse rubs at his temple for a moment, then straightens, putting on a stony face. “Did you find out why he did it? Porter only knew him professionally, and not well at that; he couldn’t tell me anything.”

Thursday takes a deep breath and nods. “We did, after a fashion. Lescault had a wife and two young sons; they were all three killed in a car accident in ’52. Given his subject matter, the college gave him a year’s sabbatical abroad to study something of a lighter nature. Well, you know how that turned out. I gather from his colleagues he was – as you said – an empty vessel after the death of his family. Not broken, just empty. And men get tired of emptiness. Maybe eventually, he even forgot the cost, or learned not to care. Just as he learned to forget that what he brought back wouldn’t be human.” Thursday intertwines his fingers, lips curling involuntarily in disgust. 

“His wife?” asks Morse.

Thursday meets his eyes with a flat expression. “No. I spoke with the pathologist this morning. The bones – weren’t an adult’s,” he finishes carefully.

Morse opens his mouth, closes it, then stands abruptly and turns to walk over towards the fireplace, one arm held tight over his waist, the other raised to his face, his back to Thursday. He’s silent for more than a minute. When he does speak, there’s only the slightest catch in his voice. “Sir, I know you’ve done more than anyone else would for me, and I’m very grateful. But I have a favour to ask. The compass, I was wondering if I could see it. I know it must have been signed into the evidence desk by now. It would be… helpful to me, to see it before I leave.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows. “You’re right, it’s on the evidence desk. Unfortunately it met with a bit of an accident on its way there. Seems to have been trodden on by an exceptionally hefty PC, apparently several times. Of course, it’s still perfectly admissible as far as evidence goes – but according to Dr Porter it will be useless for blood rites.” Thursday watches as Morse spins around, eyes wide and disbelieving, and smiles very gently. “Do I still need to arrange for you to visit the evidence desk?” he asks, discreetly.

Morse drops his head, chagrined. “No, sir. I don’t think so. But why – that is –”

“Accidents happen, constable, no one can say why or how,” says Thursday. “But if you were to ask me for my opinion on the thing, I would tell you that it was designed for evil and misery, and that’s all it’s ever caused. There’s no use for it, other than to make monsters of broken people and those they loved. And there’s no reason for something like that to exist.”

“No,” agrees Morse, “There isn’t.”

There’s never any true silence in Thursday’s office in the day – the wall between him and the CID office is thin, and the cacophony of typewriters, telephones and voices will always bleed through – but for a moment they share the nearest gradation of quietness possible. It passes when someone slams the filing cabinet against Thursday’s outer wall shut, making the whole frame shudder. He sighs and shakes his head – it’s a perennial issue. 

“You said ‘before I leave,’” says Thursday, starting a new conversation in an easy tone. “Are you planning on leaving Oxford, then?”

Morse returns to his chair to lean his weight against the back. “As soon as I’m permitted. I’ve nothing to keep me here. I’ll go back to Lincolnshire – where my family is – until I can get my papers reissued and my bank account opened again.”

“And after that?”

Morse shrugs. “I’ll return to the Force, in Carshall Newtown if they’ll take me.”

Thursday leans back, considering the young man in front of him. Sharp, confident, dedicated, and a good heart. He’ll go far, if he can check his temper and keep the job from crushing his spirit.

“They will,” Thursday says. “I spoke with DCS Crisp; he’s put in a word with your DCS. There’ll be a position waiting for you at Carshall, if you want it. Apparently they’re short on good men out there. I imagine they could use you.”

Morse flushes from his collar to his hairline, shuffling an awkward half-step over. “I – don’t know how to thank you, sir.”

“Then don’t. It’s in the Force’s best interest to keep you on – I’m just doing my duty.” He raises his eyebrows, giving Morse a straight-forward look. “I mean it, Morse – you’ll do alright for yourself, if you mind your career.”

The lad nods. “Yes, sir.”

Thursday rises to see Morse out, coming around his desk. “You’ll need to leave your contact information with DS Lott, and there will be some follow-up correspondence, but with Lescault dead and his files in our possession, you’re free to leave this afternoon.” He holds out his hand; Morse only hesitates for a split-second before shaking, but it’s enough for Thursday to notice it, and equally for Morse to notice him noticing. The lad cocks his head to the side, giving a self-deprecating smile.

“Most people don’t care to shake once they know what I am,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “You’re one of the few people I’ve ever met who isn’t bothered by it.”

The lad intends his words as a compliment, but they hit Thursday like a kick in the teeth – not for what they mean to him but for what they reveal about Morse. About this quiet lad with Sunday School manners, a good heart, the courage to think of others even with his life on the line, but no close friends, and family he doesn’t call until two days after being rescued from near-death. But that’s not a productive conversation to have with a relative stranger before leaving town.

“What you are is a lad with a good head on his shoulders and his heart in the right place – that’s the only thing that matters,” says Thursday, careful to keep his anger out of his voice. “As for the rest of it, I’ll let you in on a secret, lad. I’ve got great respect for reading objects and the dead, but frankly most coppers my age worth their salt should be able to read the living without empathy. I know there’s more to it than that, but when it comes down to it, a good deal of what you feel, I see anyway. I’ve never entirely seen what all the fuss is about.” 

Morse looks at him oddly for a moment, then snorts. Thursday shrugs good-naturedly, hamming just a little.

“Well, never say I don’t speak as I find. It does remind me of something I meant to ask before, only the opportunity never arose. Given your nature, why did you become a copper? We don’t mix with the most savoury characters.” 

“No, but cruel people are everywhere – I met plenty of the when I was up; you can’t avoid them. Or razor-edged photographs, for that matter,” he adds, glancing at Thursday’s mantelpiece for a moment before turning back. “Honestly, I needed the work. And… I thought that I could do the job.” He looks at Thursday, blue eyes clear and honest.

Thursday nods. “Fair enough. Well, I wish you luck, Detective Constable Morse. Safe journey home, and a new beginning at Carshall.”

“Thank you, sir. I won’t forget your kindness.” Morse gives one more fleeting smile, opens the door, and is gone.

***

JUNE, 1965

Thursday’s reading through the Tremlett file for the third time at his desk when Lott enters, a stack of papers in his hands. “Just got the first run of the flyers in, sir. We’ll start getting them distributed, but we’re going to need more man-power on this. You know how tight we are, what with losing Burrows and Havendash at the same time.”

Thursday nods. “Alright. I’ll speak with Crisp. We’ll pull in some lads on attachment for the duration.”

Lott nods. “I’ll start the paperwork with Witney.”

“No – we’ve been bothering them too much lately. Put in to Carshall Newton.”

“Right you are, guv’nor.” The sergeant shrugs and turns to go. 

“Oh, and Arthur, one more thing.” Thursday looks up, keeping his place in the file with his finger, and catches Lott’s eye. “When you put in the request – ask for DC Morse.”

THE END (OR - THE BEGINNING)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that wraps this one up. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed this rather bizarre trip off the beaten path (at least as concerns Endeavour)!
> 
> Addendum 2015: This work is now continued in Phoenix.


End file.
